


Whatever Remains, However Improbable

by terriblelifechoices



Series: Possible [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discussion of Abortion, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Recovery, Rimming, Topping from the Bottom, Wandless Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 19:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 180,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10445643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriblelifechoices/pseuds/terriblelifechoices
Summary: Life outside of Grindelwald's prison is going to take some getting used to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from one of the Sherlock Holmes stories. The full quote reads, "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"
> 
> Many thanks to the fantastic [flightinflame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) who has my undying gratitude forever.

Credence grabbed for Percival as he fell, but he wasn’t strong enough to keep Percival from falling. He wound up half crumpled beneath Percival’s unconscious body, trying to hold back his rising hysteria because getting upset was bad for the baby.

Be hysterical later, he told himself. Take care of Percival now.

He looked up at the shocked witches and wizards crowding into the kitchen and the basement landing. “Help me,” he begged. “Please.”

Half a dozen of them leapt forward at once, crowding around Percival and dragging him off of Credence. 

“Don’t crowd him,” snapped the pretty witch Percival had been yelling at a minute ago. Seraphina. The magical president. She knelt down next to Percival, heedless of her fine clothes. She checked his pulse and sagged with relief. “He’s alive,” she said. “For the moment.”

“Kill him later,” a different witch advised. “Can you Side-Along him to St. Brigid’s?”

“Yes,” said Seraphina.

“Then go,” said the other witch. Credence thought, from the braids winding all around her head, that she might be Hughes.

Seraphina and Percival vanished a second later.

“Wait!” Credence cried, because _Percival was gone._ “Where did you take him? Bring him back!” 

“Mercy fucking Lewis,” said Miss Hughes. “She took him to the hospital. Which is where you’re going, too. Collins!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said one of the wizards who had been crowding around Percival. He was tall and movie star handsome, his expression one of concern.

“Let me come with you,” blurted a dark-haired witch. “I know him. Sort of. You’re Credence Barebone, aren’t you?”

“You’re a fucking menace, Goldstein,” Miss Hughes said, exasperated.

Credence realized that he recognized her. She was the dark-haired witch who had tried to save him from Ma, months and months ago now. “Miss Goldstein?” he asked.

She broke into a broad smile. “Yes, Credence.”

“I want to be where Percival is,” Credence said, as firmly as he dared. “Can you please take me there?”

“Collins, go with her,” Miss Hughes snapped. “Summersea, you’re with me. Squad three, secure the premises and make sure that albino prick didn’t leave us any other surprises. Squads four and five, I want Obliviation checkpoints at one, five and ten block radiuses from the Director’s house. Squads one and two: get your reports written up and on Deputy Director McRory’s desk ASAP and then go home and get some shut eye. You’ve earned it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Collins. He held out a hand to Credence. “May I?” he asked politely.

Credence suspected he meant to bring Credence to wherever Percival was with magic. He grasped Mr. Collins’ hand in his own. 

Miss Goldstein took hold of his other hand, rubbing her thumb across the back of his knuckles reassuringly. “It’ll be okay, Credence,” she said.

The world disappeared and reappeared a second later.

“Oh, no,” Credence moaned, his stomach lurching. The baby didn’t like traveling by magic any better than he did, it seemed. There was practically nothing in his stomach to bring up, but he still wound up vomiting over his sweater and poor Mr. Collins’ shoes. He wiped his mouth off and cast a reflexive _scourgify_ to get everything clean again. Casting _scourgify_ was second nature now; he’d had a lot of practice. “I’m so sorry about that,” he said to Mr. Collins.

“It’s alright,” Mr. Collins assured him.

“Credence,” said Miss Goldstein. “Did you just do _magic?_ Without a wand?”

“Percival taught me,” Credence said. “Was that not okay? He said it was alright to do magic in front of other wizards. I wouldn’t do it in front of ordinary people,” he assured her. “That would be against the law.”

“It’s fine,” she said faintly.

Credence looked around. He’d never been in a hospital before, but they seemed to be in some sort of waiting room. There were people – wizards – sitting in chairs with a number of strange injuries. There was a witch wearing a dove grey uniform sitting at the front desk, a pen and paper hovering in the air beside her while she took notes. People in emerald green uniforms bustled in and out, usually ushering one of the injured people away with them.

Percival was nowhere in sight.

“I thought you were taking me to Percival,” he said.

“We are,” Miss Goldstein assured him. “We just need to get you checked over, first.”

Mr. Collins squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and went to go talk to the witch at the desk. She didn’t look pleased by the interruption. Neither did the wizard she was talking to.

An older looking woman swooped down on Mr. Collins, scowling ferociously. Mr. Collins made placating hand gestures at her and flashed what Credence thought was a badge at her. He gestured to Credence and Miss Goldstein, and then put his badge away.

The older nurse walked briskly over to where Credence and Miss Goldstein were waiting. “You’re with Director Graves and President Picquery?”

“Yes,” Credence said, hunching in on himself a little. The nurse was brusque and authoritarian in a way that reminded him of Ma. He wrapped his arms protectively around his belly and reminded himself to be brave. “I’m Credence Graves,” he said.

The nurse nodded briskly. “Come with me,” she said. “President Picquery left orders to make sure that you were well taken care of,” she informed him. “Normally, that would mean you’d be seen by the Bluebird herself, but the Bluebird is still a bit preoccupied swearing at Director Graves at the moment.”

“Is he being difficult?” Credence asked.

“No,” the nurse said, sounding amused. “I’m sure he will be once he wakes up, though. He always is.”

Credence wanted to ask why the Bluebird was swearing at Percival while Percival was still unconscious, but he didn’t want to provoke the nurse.

“The Bluebird is only swearing at Director Graves because she cares about him,” the nurse said, her expression softening. “She’s not angry with him for getting hurt, she’s angry that he _got_ hurt, and badly enough that he wound up here. The only person she’s really angry with right now is Grindelwald.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “Thank you. For explaining.”

The nurse gave him a small smile in return. She wasn’t anything like Ma, Credence decided. Her eyes were kind.

“A different Healer will perform your exam,” the nurse continued. “Would you be more comfortable with a male Healer or a female one?”

“Um,” said Credence, struck all over again by how different the magical world was from the ordinary one. But if women could be presidents, why _couldn’t_ they be doctors, too? 

Still. Qualified or not, Credence didn’t think he’d be comfortable with a lady doctor seeing him in any state of undress. “Male?”

“I’ll send Wilkinson in,” the nurse told him. “Would you like your escort to stay?” she asked, with a pointed look at Mr. Collins and Miss Goldstein.

“We’re here for his protection,” Mr. Collins protested.

“You’re not family,” the nurse shot back. “Which means if Credence doesn’t want you here, you’re leaving.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Credence said quietly.

“It’s no trouble,” the nurse assured him. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

Credence weighed his options. He hadn’t expected the nurse – or anyone else for that matter – to take what _he_ wanted into consideration. He wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted Mr. Collins or Miss Goldstein to stay for his medical exam, but he also didn’t want to be left alone with strangers.

Of course, Mr. Collins and Miss Goldstein were also strangers. He only felt like he knew them because of Percival’s stories.

He looked apologetically at Miss Goldstein. “Could you please wait outside?” he asked. “I don’t think … it wouldn’t be proper, having an unmarried lady in the room.”

Miss Goldstein looked like she wanted to protest. The nurse gave her a sharp look and Miss Goldstein immediately shut her mouth and nodded. “Of course,” she said, slinking out of the room.

“It’s nice to see a well brought up young man,” the nurse said approvingly. She pointed a finger at Mr. Collins. “You had better behave, Auror Collins. Stay out of Wilkinson’s way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Collins said automatically.

The nurse nodded, satisfied, and went off to go find Healer Wilkinson.

There was a Wilkinson among the Twelve, Credence remembered. Charity Wilkinson was one of the only ones who hadn’t died in the line of duty.

Maybe Healer Wilkinson was a relative of hers.

A man around Mr. Collins’ age poked his head in the room. “Credence Graves?” he asked.

“Yes?” Credence asked. He cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s me.”

“Healer Perseverance Wilkinson,” said the man, sticking his hand out for Credence to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Credence blinked. Perseverance Wilkinson was the sort of name that would have fit in nicely at Ma’s ministry. He hadn’t expected wizards to put much stock in virtues.

“I know,” said Healer Wilkinson. “My family’s old-fashioned. I usually go by Percy. You?”

“Um,” said Credence. “Just Credence.”

“Hard to find a nickname for that,” Healer Wilkinson agreed. He clapped his hands together. “Okay. Basic medical exam. St. Brigid’s doesn’t have a copy of your medical records on file, so why don’t we start with height, weight and all the rest of it?”

That seemed reasonable enough to Credence, especially once he realized that a magical medical exam consisted mostly of Healer Wilkinson aiming his wand at Credence and taking notes. He used the same spell Mr. Grindelwald had, when he’d confirmed that Credence was with child. Credence flinched at the feel of unfamiliar magic; Healer Wilkinson’s magic felt like feathers. It tickled.

“Would you mind taking off your sweater?” Healer Wilkinson asked. “The next part is a bit more hands on.”

“Alright,” Credence said, stripping out of the soft blue sweater that still smelled like Percival.

Mr. Collins startled as soon as he caught sight of Credence’s belly, but Healer Wilkinson just nodded. He pressed the tips of his fingers against Credence’s stomach. “The prenatal diagnostic spells work better by touch,” Healer Wilkinson explained. He made a humming noise and prodded a little bit harder. “Who cast the androgenesis spell?”

Credence blinked. Percival had mentioned those, once or twice, but he hadn’t explained what they were.

“Not you,” Healer Wilkinson said. “And not Director Graves either, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Credence said.

“That information is part of an ongoing investigation,” Mr. Collins said firmly. His voice had a hint of _so don’t ask about it_ in it that made Credence think he shouldn’t mention Mr. Grindelwald.

“Medical treatment supersedes privileged information,” Healer Wilkinson shot back. “But you’re welcome to try playing the ‘need to know’ game with the Bluebird.”

Mr. Collins straightened, a hint of steel in his expression. “Magical Security doesn’t play games – especially not where one of our own is concerned. Aelinor Bluebird has been vetted. You haven’t.”

“Is there something wrong?” Credence asked. He pressed a protective hand over his stomach, trying to shield his son – _Percival’s son_ – from harm.

“Nothing the Bluebird can’t fix,” Healer Wilkinson said.

There _was_ something wrong, then. All of the panic he’d tried so hard to hold back broke free; it swept over him like a wave and dragged him under. It felt like he was drowning in it. He couldn’t breathe, and there was nothing solid to anchor himself to, because Percival wasn’t there.

Someone grabbed his hands. “It’s okay, Credence. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Breathe with me, okay? In and out, nice and slow, there you go. You’re safe now, I promise.” 

That was what Percival said, whenever Credence panicked. Those were Percival’s words.

Credence made himself breathe slowly. He blinked and realized that Mr. Collins was the person holding his hands, his handsome face twisted into an expression of frightened concern.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Collins assured him. “You’ve had a long day. Anyone would be a little peaky.”

Credence let go of Mr. Collins’ hands and looked at Healer Wilkinson. “What’s wrong with my baby?”

“Nothing!” Healer Wilkinson said hastily. “Your baby’s perfectly healthy. It’s just, the androgenesis spells are designed to make it easier for a wizard to carry a child to term. Our bodies just aren’t built for it, the way a witch’s is. Whoever cast yours used a variant I haven’t seen before and they didn’t account for the way your organs need to shift as the baby gets bigger. It’s nothing the Bluebird can’t fix.”

Credence sagged against the exam table in relief. His baby was fine.

“Your vitals are all low, though. Have you not eaten today?”

Credence shook his head. 

“Morning sickness?” asked Healer Wilkinson.

“It’s getting better,” Credence said. At least, he thought it was. Then he realized Healer Wilkinson thought he wasn’t eating because of it. “I can eat, once it passes,” he explained. “There wasn’t any food, though.”

Healer Wilkinson frowned. So did Mr. Collins. “I’ll get you something to eat,” he said. “Is there anything you can’t have? Foods that set the morning sickness off?”

Credence shook his head again.

“Alright. Dinner it is. The Bluebird will want to check on you as soon as she’s finished seeing Director Graves. Make sure she’s completely read in on anything she needs to know,” he added, although that last bit seemed aimed at Mr. Collins. “Do you have any questions?”

Thousands. Credence didn’t think Healer Wilkinson could answer any of them, though.

“Is Percival alright?” he asked.

“He’s with the Bluebird,” Healer Wilkinson said. “He’s in the best possible hands.”

That wasn’t the answer Credence wanted, but it would have to do. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll send someone up with food,” Healer Wilkinson promised. “Get some rest, Credence.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence said. He didn’t want rest. He wanted to find Percival. It felt wrong, not having Percival with him. He eyed the door, wondering just how big the hospital was, and how long it would take to find Percival.

“The nurses won’t like it if you make a break for it,” Mr. Collins told him, passing Credence his sweater. “Annoying the healers is a time honored Auror tradition, but you really don’t want to upset the nurses. Besides, you should eat. Did Grindelwald really not feed you?”

“Not in the last day or so,” Credence said, shrugging back into the sweater.

“Since he got captured,” Collins said. 

“He’s been captured?” Credence asked. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Collins. “Magical Security has him in custody.”

“Good,” said Credence, meanly satisfied that Mr. Grindelwald was someone’s prisoner now. Mr. Grindelwald could see how _he_ liked it for a change.

“I’m Collins, by the way,” Mr. Collins said, offering Credence his hand. “Alexander Collins.” He had a firm, warm handshake.

“I know,” Credence said. “Um. Percival told me about you,” he explained, at Mr. Collins’ startled look. “And the rest of Major Investigations. So, you and Hughes and Summersea. You’re his team.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Collins said. “We are.” He looked suddenly like he wanted to cry, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hopefully he’ll still want us as his team, once he’s back to work.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Credence asked, baffled.

“We should’ve known better,” Mr. Collins said fiercely. “We should’ve noticed that he wasn’t himself. Grindelwald shouldn’t have been able to fool us.”

He sounded angry and ashamed. Credence knew how that felt – and, more importantly, what to say.

“You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, Mr. Collins,” he said firmly. “Mr. Grindelwald lies and deceives. It’s what he does.” 

Those were Percival’s words, too.

“If you’d noticed something was wrong, Mr. Grindelwald would have killed you,” Credence continued, thinking of Norton. He wasn’t using Percival’s words anymore, but that didn’t matter because he’d found his own. “As long as you’re alive, you can make things better. You can keep fighting, if that’s what you want to do. But more importantly, you can keep Mr. Grindelwald from hurting anyone else ever again, and you can make sure other men like him can’t either.”

Mr. Collins bowed his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were shining but he was smiling so broadly it was like he couldn’t stop and wasn’t even going to try, so Credence must have said the right thing. “Thank you,” he said.

Credence smiled back, pleased with his success. Percival would want his people taken care of, and that was exactly what Credence was going to do.

 

*

 

Aelinor Bluebird was a petite woman in her fifties. There were crows feet etched around her bright green eyes, and her wavy blonde hair was streaked with silver. She looked like one of the good fairies the Irish immigrants in his old neighborhood liked to talk about; the ones that would clean your house and bless your crops if treated with respect. She wore emerald green, like all the other Healers Credence had seen, and a gold necklace that depicted two snakes twining around a wand hung around her neck. 

Percival hadn’t told him anything about the Bluebird except that she was lovely and terrifying and the strongest mediwitch in the country, but Credence knew who she was because Miss Goldstein and Mr. Collins both straightened to attention as soon as she walked into the room.

She fixed the two Aurors with a stern look. “Out,” she commanded.

“Ma’am,” Mr. Collins protested.

“We should stay,” said Miss Goldstein, who seemed less cowed by authority.

“You’re adorable,” the Bluebird told them. It didn’t sound like a compliment. “Have either of you idiots slept at all in the last forty-eight hours?”

“Ma’am,” Mr. Collins said, avoiding the question entirely.

Miss Goldstein huffed out an impatient breath. “We’re fine,” she said, also avoiding the question.

“Of course not,” said the Bluebird. _“Aurors._ Go home and get some sleep.” She gave both of them a friendly smile when neither of them moved. “I can write you a prescription for sleep, if you like,” she said. Her tone suggested that they really did not want her to do that.

Credence wasn’t entirely sure how that was a threat, but it seemed to work. Mr. Collins and Miss Goldstein weren’t happy about leaving, but they obeyed the Bluebird anyway.

The Bluebird looked Credence up and down. She shook her head when Credence opened his mouth to ask how Percival was, gesturing to the door. She pointed her wand at Credence and murmured, _“Muffliato.”_ Then she pointed to the door and cast a spell that made a loud banging sound. Outside the door, Credence thought he could hear Miss Goldstein swearing, but whatever spell the Bluebird had cast made his ears feel like they’d been stuffed with cotton.

The Bluebird turned back to Credence again and said: _“Finite incantatem.”_

The cotton vanished.

_“Aurors,”_ the Bluebird said, with a roll of her eyes. She held her hand out to Credence. “Healer Aelinor Bluebird.”

“Credence Graves,” Credence said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I wish it were under better circumstances. You ought to have been monitored from the start.”

“Healer Wilkinson said my baby was healthy,” Credence said, worried all over again. The Bluebird was a stronger mediwitch than Healer Wilkinson. Had she sensed something that Healer Wilkinson missed?

“It is,” the Bluebird assured him. “But you still should have been monitored. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Um,” Credence said. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he wanted to know how Percival was more than he cared about not being rude. “Can you please tell me how Percival is? Will he be alright?”

“Graves will be fine,” the Bluebird said firmly. “He’s a tough bastard; he always has been. It’ll take more than goddamn Grindelwald to take him down. He’s considerably underweight and has lost a lot of muscle mass, so his recovery will take time, but he _will_ recover.”

“He passed out, though,” Credence said. “He let go of his magic to break us out of the basement.”

The Bluebird stared at him. “He _let go,”_ she repeated.

Credence nodded. “Percival tested the wards a lot. It was the only way he could get Mr. Grindelwald’s attention, he said. He’d kind of … smash into them? With his magic. But that was always controlled, and whatever he did to break the wards entirely wasn’t controlled at all. It was like – it felt like a storm.” It had been a storm of magic, all impossible pressure and unstoppable might. 

Percival had stopped it, though.

“That _fucking idiot,”_ said the Bluebird. “I’ve half a mind to wake him up and kill him myself.”

_“Don’t you dare,”_ Credence snapped, reaching for his magic. He didn’t know how to fight like Percival did, but he’d be damned if he let the Bluebird hurt Percival. 

“Stop,” the Bluebird said firmly. “I wouldn’t _actually_ hurt Graves. I just spent three hours putting him back together. I’m just – upset. He could’ve burnt himself out, trying something that _stupid.”_

Credence glared at her. “Percival did what he had to.”

“He always does,” the Bluebird said flatly. “He’s Graves. It’s what he does. That doesn’t mean that you or I or anyone else need to like picking up the pieces after he does. Graves does what he thinks he has to, and as long as he’s the only one who gets hurt he thinks that the ends justify the means.”

Credence wanted to protest and realized he couldn’t. He didn’t really have a leg to stand on, because that was exactly what Percival _did._ Percival would do whatever he thought he had to, as long as he was the only one who got hurt for it. It was why he spent so much time baiting Mr. Grindelwald, trying to make sure that the only person Mr. Grindelwald hurt was him. Credence _hated_ watching Percival get hurt.

It had never occurred to him that Percival might try that with people who _weren’t_ Mr. Grindelwald. That self-sacrifice might be part of his default personality.

Then he felt stupid for not noticing, because _of course_ it was. This was Percival they were talking about here.

“I’m going to yell at him,” Credence muttered. “A lot.” He’d never raised his voice to anyone, mostly because he hadn’t dared to, but he felt that this warranted a lot of yelling.

“Maybe he’ll listen to you,” the Bluebird said.

“He had better,” Credence said. “He’ll really be okay? Even though he let go of his magic?”

“If he were a weaker wizard, or less skilled at wandless magic, what he did would have killed him,” the Bluebird said bluntly. “But he’s Graves. The fact that it didn’t kill him means he’s out of the woods. He’s going to get better.” She lifted her wand and gestured to Credence. “Mind if we focus on you for a bit?”

“Oh,” Credence said. “Alright.” He braced himself for the feel of the Bluebird’s magic.

_“Diagnoskien,”_ the Bluebird said, with a flick of her wand. Her magic felt light and airy, a barely there touch. He wouldn’t have noticed it at all, if he hadn’t been waiting for it.

“You’re almost through the first trimester,” she told him. “I know Wilkinson spooked you earlier when you thought something was wrong, but I have to ask. Do you want this child? There are options we can take, if you don’t.”

Credence shrank back. Only fallen women employed the kind of options the Bluebird was talking about, and he wanted no part of them. “I want him,” he said. “He’s my son. Mine and Percival’s.”

The Bluebird nodded. “Alright then. Let’s see about making sure you can carry him to term successfully, then. Grindelwald used older variants of the androgenesis spells; they tend to be hard on the carrier. I can fix them so that you won’t suffer any adverse side effects. It’s not a comfortable procedure,” she warned him. “You’ll likely experience nausea and cramping. But your child will be fine, and your own health will be the safer for it. Without them, you may not survive to term.”

“Oh,” said Credence. His own life didn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. But he wanted to see his son grow to manhood, and to find out what kind of father Percival would make. He wanted to give his son _siblings_ – to make sure Percival had a proper legacy. He had to survive in order to do so, though.

Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t want to die. Not now that he had magic and a family and a future.

“I’ll need your permission,” the Bluebird said.

“Do whatever you need to,” Credence said. “I don’t care what it takes, or how uncomfortable it is. Just make sure my baby is okay.”

The Bluebird nodded. “Lie back on the exam table,” she advised. “You don’t want to be on your feet for this.”

She was right about that. The cramps were worse than they had been the first week Percival had been unconscious, that time Credence thought he would lose them both. He vomited half a dozen times before the procedure was over – twice all over the Bluebird, who didn’t seem to notice – and curled up in a miserable ball once it was over. He wanted Percival, who couldn’t make anything better but would at least _be there,_ a warm reassuring presence once the misery had passed. He tried to go find Percival, once the Bluebird had left.

A dark haired woman caught him before he got very far. She wasn’t dressed like a nurse or a healer, and her warm brown eyes were strangely familiar. 

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You’re going to be alright. We’re family.”

Credence blinked at her, too caught up in his own misery to realize who she was. 

“Back to bed, now,” she crooned as she tucked him in, the way Percival did when he was just murmuring soothing nonsense. “You need to rest up. My brother’s going to be fine, I promise. You need to make sure my niece or nephew is too.” She rubbed Credence’s back reassuringly, sweeping up and down his spine in firm, maternal strokes. “I’ll keep watch,” she told him, exactly like Percival would have. “Get some rest.”

“Dindrane?” Credence asked, because she couldn’t be anyone else.

“Yes,” she assured him. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Credence clung to her hands. He wanted her to hold him the way that Percival would have, but he didn’t know her well enough to ask. Dindrane clung back, just as tight. She hummed a lullaby Credence half-recognized under her breath.

He took in a deep breath and let it out. Dindrane would keep watch. She’d keep him safe, in Percival’s stead. He was _so tired,_ but he didn’t feel safe enough to rest. Not without Percival.

Dindrane sang quietly under her breath. He thought he recognized the lullabies, although he didn’t know where he knew them from. Her voice was quiet and comforting, a reminder that Dindrane was there to keep watch. He relaxed into the lullabies, and let them carry him off to sleep. 

 

*

 

Credence woke up to the sound of Dindrane saying, “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” She had her wand out, and she was pointing it a young woman dressed in dove grey. One of the nurses, Credence thought.

“I just need to check –” the nurse began. She didn’t look much older than Credence.

“Your caduceus is the one for the Minor Injuries ward, which, the last time I checked, was two floors down from here. You have no business in the private ward, much less intruding on my family. So you’re either looking for gossip or hoping to leak something to the _New York Ghost.”_ Dindrane smiled, vicious and sharp. “If it’s the former, you’re a reckless idiot and I will turn you into a pigeon so your body matches your brain. If it’s the latter, I can assure you that I will press charges. That, however, will be _nothing_ compared to what my brother will do to you.” She lowered her voice. “You _do_ know who my brother is, don’t you? You wouldn’t be here snooping if you didn’t. Do you really think _Percival Graves_ is a man you want to cross?”

The nurse squeaked.

“Get out,” Dindrane commanded.

The nurse scurried away as fast as her feet would take her.

Dindrane tucked her wand away. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” Credence said automatically. He realized that he had no idea where the water closet was, and also that he needed to find it immediately.

“Here,” Dindrane said, passing him a metal bowl to be sick in. She patted him between his shoulderblades while he retched up bile. There wasn’t much in his stomach, after the Bluebird had healed him yesterday.

“This stops, doesn’t it?” Credence asked. Percival had said that it stopped, but Dindrane had borne three children. Surely she knew more about being pregnant than Percival did.

He’d recognized her more on instinct than anything else last night. Who else would claim him as family? He couldn’t help staring at her now, memorizing all the ways she was familiar – all the ways she looked like Percival. She had the same thin-bladed nose and warm brown eyes. Her hair was a shade warmer than Percival’s, shot through with silver. It hung loose in waves around her shoulders and down her back. It wasn’t a particularly fashionable haircut, but Credence thought it made Dindrane look like a princess from some forgotten age – one of Percival’s stories maybe. It looked good on her because she had the confidence to carry it off.

Credence had the feeling Dindrane had the confidence to do a lot of things.

“For most people, yes,” said Dindrane. “It’s worse for wizards, generally. Your bodies aren’t built to carry children, so the influx of hormones is unsettling. That said, if you haven’t been vomiting around the clock, it should pass soon.”

“Just the mornings,” Credence said.

“Lucky you,” Dindrane said, sounding amused. “I had it every hour of the day. I seriously considered just setting up my office in the lavatory, I was in there that often.”

“You worked while you were with child?” Credence asked.

“Of course,” Dindrane said, looking surprised that he’d asked. “Being pregnant doesn’t make you infirm, or any less capable of doing things than someone who’s not. There are somethings you need to go easy on, of course, but my work is largely theoretical, so there was no risk to the children.”

“Oh,” said Credence. 

He was saved from having to admit that he had no trade or useful skills by the appearance of another nurse. This one was older, and evidently wearing the correct caduceus – whatever that was; Credence really needed to ask Dindrane about that – because Dindrane didn’t immediately go for her wand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the nurse said, scowling. “You’re either far too late or far too early for visiting hours, and _those_ are restricted to family only.”

Dindrane squared her shoulders. “I am family,” she said coldly.

“Mr. Barebone has no family,” the nurse retorted.

“I’ll think you’ll find that _Mr. Graves_ does,” Dindrane said. She rubbed her thumb against Credence’s wrist reassuringly, silently letting him know there was no need to worry. “The child he carries is an heir to the Graves bloodline, just as much as my own children are. _My_ bloodline. I am family, and you cannot keep me from him.” She didn’t show all her teeth, the way Percival did when his blood was up. Her smile was smaller, more secretive; Credence thought it might hide a serpent’s fangs rather than a wampus cat’s teeth. “You could try,” Dindrane continued, off-handedly. “But you will fail.”

The nurse looked very much like she _did_ want to try, and might have done so if the Bluebird hadn’t shown up. 

“I’ll take care of this,” the Bluebird said.

The nurse shot Dindrane a nasty look as she left, clearly convinced that the Bluebird was going to throw Dindrane out.

The Bluebird shut the door behind her. “Must you antagonize my staff?” she inquired, but Credence could tell from her tone that she didn’t actually mind it.

“I don’t _antagonize_ people,” Dindrane sniffed. “I merely correct their assumptions about reality.”

“You mean you tell people what you want them to do and then you make them do it,” the Bluebird corrected, one corner of her mouth quirking up.

“Well, yes,” Dindrane said, completely unapologetic.

“I have never been able to decide if the Graves tendency towards reckless _I know best_ insanity is nature or nurture,” the Bluebird said to Credence. “Do let me know if you figure it out. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Credence said automatically. “Can I see Percival? Please?”

“You’re not fine,” Dindrane protested automatically, exactly like Percival would have. “You threw up less than twenty minutes ago.”

“The morning sickness passes,” Credence said. The fact that it hadn’t quite passed yet was irrelevant. He could handle being a little nauseous, as long as he got to see Percival.

“Are you sore at all?” the Bluebird asked, ignoring Dindrane.

“Um,” Credence said. He was, a little, but he didn’t want to admit to it if it would stop him from seeing Percival. “The cramps are gone,” he said instead.

The Bluebird sighed. “Morrigan help me, you Graves’ are _infectious,”_ she said. 

Dindrane stared at her, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Credence, how do you feel?” the Bluebird asked again. “Honestly, this time?”

“I’m _fine,”_ Credence insisted. “The cramps were very bad yesterday, but they’re gone now.”

“That,” said the Bluebird. “That is _Graves_ for ‘my abdomen hurts like hell but I can still move and I will get out of this hospital bed the second your back is turned.’ It’s like the Auror Pain Scale, only as a dialect for stubborn, self-sacrificing _idiots_ instead.” She scowled at Dindrane. “You do the exact same thing and you know it.”

Dindrane turned thoughtful brown eyes on Credence. “Huh,” she said.

Credence did his best to look like someone who had not, in fact, been thinking of escaping his hospital bed despite how sore he really was. Judging from Dindrane and the Bluebird’s matching unimpressed expressions, he failed miserably.

He huffed. “I _may_ feel a little bit nauseous, and a little sore,” he admitted. “But it’s nothing, really.” What was being a little nauseous and sore to getting belted? He’d endured far worse than this. “So can I _please_ go see Percival now?”

“Unfortunately, the answer to that is no,” the Bluebird said.

Credence opened his mouth to argue and the Bluebird held up a hand to stop him.

“It’s not that I won’t let you, it’s that I _can’t._ You and Graves are both part of an ongoing investigation, and MACUSA can’t allow you to have contact until both of your statements have been verified.”

“That’s _stupid,”_ Credence burst out. He brought his hands up to cover his mouth a second later, appalled. If he’d said anything like that to Ma, she’d have struck him across the face and then belted him for it later to drive the lesson home. 

Percival wouldn’t hurt him for speaking out of turn, but Percival wasn’t here.

“I’m sorry,” he said hastily, hunching in on himself. Apologizing never made things better with Ma, but Dindrane and the Bluebird seemed more inclined to be merciful. “I spoke out of turn, and I was rude, and I’m _sorry.”_

“Relax,” Dindrane said. “We agree with you. It _is_ stupid. But it’s also the law. It’s _supposed_ to minimize corroboration, or witness tampering, or some such nonsense. You can see my brother once you’ve both given statements and MACUSA realizes you’re not suspects.”

“Why would we be suspects?” Credence demanded. “Mr. Grindelwald kept us prisoner for months. He _tortured_ Percival.”

“It’s … complicated,” said the Bluebird.

Credence thought that was stupid too, but he managed not to say so. “Can I give my statement, then?” He wasn’t exactly sure _how_ to give a statement, or who to give it to, but he’d have said anything they wanted if it got him back to Percival and really didn’t care.

“There will be a team in to do that later today,” the Bluebird said. “As your Healer, I’ll be sitting in. Dindrane can too, if you like. Normally, MACUSA prefers not to take statements in the presence of family members, but they’ll make an exception for Dindrane if you want one.”

Credence looked at Dindrane, who had gone white as a sheet at his careless mention of torture. “Only if Dindrane wants to be there,” he said. “Some of the details are … not nice.” He didn’t think he could bear to listen to anyone talk about Mr. Grindelwald torturing Chastity or Modesty, if he’d been in Dindrane’s place.

Dindrane squared her shoulders. “I’d rather know than not,” she said. “And Merlin knows _Percival_ will never tell me.”

“I’ll have a word with Picquery,” murmured the Bluebird. “And Hughes, since I suspect she’ll be the one asking the questions.”

“Um,” Credence said. “Is Percival’s team going to take my statement?”

“Hughes is on Percival’s team,” Dindrane told him. “She’s the Senior Investigating Auror.”

“Am I allowed to ask for Mr. Collins instead?” Credence asked. “It’s nothing against Miss Hughes, it’s just – Percival said Mr. Collins was the one you wanted asking you questions, when you’re in shock and you feel like the world is ending. And Mr. Collins seemed nice.”

The Bluebird blinked at him, clearly startled by something he’d said. “I’ll ask,” she promised. “For now, how about a quick check up and then breakfast? Do you want a potion for the nausea?”

“There are potions for morning sickness?” Credence asked. 

“Merlin and Morgana, _yes,”_ Dindrane said. “I think I lived on Bessie’s Baby Balm my first trimester with Arthur. It was the only thing that helped me keep anything down. Robert – my husband – was _so_ upset that I didn’t like his homebrewed version as well as the one you could get at the apothecary. He kept trying various brews, the poor man. I was very unsympathetic to his efforts, but in my defense, I was pregnant and puking all the time and he kept bringing me potions that didn’t work as well as the one I wanted.” She grinned at the memory. “I did make it up to him, though.”

Credence remembered Percival’s commentary about traumatic details and very carefully did not ask how Dindrane had made it up to her husband.

“Here,” said the Bluebird, handing him a little bottle with creamy yellow liquid in it. “You might as well try it for yourself.”

Credence took it. He noticed for the first time that the Bluebird had her wand out. He hadn’t even felt her magic at all, he’d been so distracted.

Bessie’s Baby Balm tasted like milky ginger tea and with lemon and sugar. Credence didn’t expect it to work – the ginger tea _helped,_ but it wasn’t a magical cure all – except five minutes later all he could think about was how much he wanted warm porridge with honey and fresh fruit. He even thought he could manage to eat eggs and toast, if some were offered to him.

“I _love_ potions,” Credence said fervently. “Potions are the most magical kind of magic there is.”

Dindrane laughed at him. But kindly, Credence thought.

The Bluebird muttered a spell that made the lingering soreness fade. She smiled at Credence and said, “Everything looks fine. The androgenesis spells are working exactly the way they’re supposed to now, and your baby looks healthy and strong. You should eat more, though. You’re still a bit underweight.”

“Right now, I think I could eat a whole horse,” Credence told her seriously.

“Horse is probably off the menu,” said the Bluebird. “But breakfast will be along shortly.”

“Will there be enough for Dindrane?” Credence asked, worried. “Mr. Grindelwald didn’t always give us enough for Percival. I tried to share,” he told Dindrane, because he _had._ He didn’t want her to think he was stealing food from Percival. “But Percival said I should have more, since I was eating for two.”

The Bluebird pursed her lips. For a second, she looked _exactly_ as terrifying as Percival had said she was. “No one starves in my hospital, Credence. There will be enough for Dindrane, too.”

“Good,” said Credence. Dindrane was one of Percival’s people. Percival would want her to be taken care of.

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Dindrane hissed, eyes black with rage. “I swore – I _swore_ that nothing would ever make me regret not joining MACUSA. I told my father that there were _better_ ways for me to keep our people safe and now all I can think is that he was right when he told me I’d regret it. I wish like hell I’d joined MACUSA just for a _chance_ at murdering that _fucking prick_ for ever _thinking_ about hurting you or my brother.”

“You don’t have to,” Credence said, startled to be included on Dindrane’s list of people to protect. “Percival will get there first.” 

Murder was a sin that Credence Barebone would have never dared to think about. 

Credence Graves had no such qualms. He’d kill Grindelwald himself, if he had the chance.

“He had better,” Dindrane said darkly.

“Are you sure you want to stay with me while I give MACUSA my statement?” Credence asked, because she was still shaking with rage and looked like she wanted to prowl around the hospital room the way Percival used to prowl their cell.

“If anyone tries to keep me away, they will regret it,” Dindrane said.

Credence believed her.

“May I ask a question?” he asked. 

“Of course,” Dindrane said, easing away from her murderous scowl and trying to look supportive.

Credence wished he’d thought to ask her more than one. He had thousands of them, but there was one he thought needed to be answered first. “What are the androgenesis spells? Percival mentioned them, and the Healers keep talking about them, but no one’s explained what they are.” He thought, based on what Healer Wilkinson and the Bluebird said, that the androgenesis spells were what allowed Percival to get him with child, but it would be nice to have confirmation. Especially if people were going to keep talking about them like he already knew what they were.

Dindrane blinked. “You don’t know?” she asked, a flicker of horror crossing her face. It was gone so fast Credence almost thought he’d imagined it.

“I was raised by ordinary people,” he said.

“You should have been brought to us sooner,” she said, frowning. “But to answer your question, the androgenesis spells are designed to help a wizard get pregnant and deliver a healthy child. They typically require an enormous amount of magical power, and for both wizards to work in tandem to sustain the child’s life. The one who sires the child typically casts the first round of spells, and uses his magic to make sure the child grows safe and strong. And the one who bears the child uses his magic to make a safe haven of his body for the child.”

“How would the wizard who sires the child use his magic to sustain the child?” Credence asked.

“The sire feeds his magic into the spells,” Dindrane said. “Typically through touch, because the intimacy is comforting, but it can be done without it from a distance. It works that way with pregnant witches too. It’s supposed to ensure a strong magical child, rather than a squib.”

“Oh,” Credence said, thinking of all the times Percival had used his magic to say hello. Why had Percival never said that it was more than that? “What if someone else casts the spells?”

“It depends on who casts them,” Dindrane said. “Sometimes a friend or loved one will offer their strength, if one of the wizards isn’t strong enough. In your case, the spells required adjustment, but the child is fine. I read your chart,” she added, a bit apologetically, when he turned a puzzled look on her.

“Oh,” he said again. He decided it didn’t matter that Percival hadn’t told him what he was doing with his magic, because Percival was just doing everything he could to make sure their son grew safe and strong. And at least now he knew what to expect next time. Surely someone could teach him the androgenesis spells he’d need to know to give their son siblings.

“Do you think I’ll be able to see my family again?” he asked. “My sisters?” 

“Are they …?” Dindrane trailed off.

“My youngest sister is magical. Or at least, I think she is,” Credence said. “I don’t know about my other sister. I _know_ Ma’s not magical.” He didn’t really want to see Ma, though. If he never saw Ma again, it would still be too soon.

“If your youngest sister is magical, you’ll definitely be able to see her again,” Dindrane assured him. “I’ll ask around, alright? Seraphina will know for sure.”

“Thank you,” Credence told her. Dindrane was just like Percival, he thought. He hoped his son would take after both of them. A true Graves heir, who was honorable and kind, just like father and his aunt, and hopefully his cousins.

It was a lovely dream. Credence Barebone would have never dared to hope for anything like that.

Credence Graves hoped for more. He had Percival and their son and a sister-in-law. He had a _family_ that would hopefully include Modesty someday soon. Credence Graves was free, and he had every intention of building a _home_ for his family: a place where he could keep them sheltered and safe.

If someone would just let him see Percival, everything would be perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

Graves woke up to find the Bluebird and Seraphina at his bedside. The Bluebird was scowling, her expression so dark it was practically a hex all on its own. Seraphina wasn’t. Graves would have felt better if she had been. Seraphina looked like she’d been carved from marble, her expression serene; only her dark eyes betrayed how she much felt. She was angry and terrified and _relieved._

Seraphina also had her wand aimed at his heart; Graves didn’t think for one second that she would hesitate to use it on him. It was what he’d have done, if he’d been in her place. 

“How long have you been working for Grindelwald?” she asked.

“I’m not working for Grindelwald,” Graves snapped, genuinely offended. “Tell me you have him in custody.” If Grindelwald wasn’t in custody, no power on this earth could stop Graves from getting out of his hospital bed and hunting the bastard down. He’d made a promise to Credence. He meant to keep it.

“He knew your mannerisms,” Seraphina said. “Your tells. He knew your _history,_ Percival, including things he only could have known _if you told him._ So. I ask again: how long have you been working for Grindelwald?”

“Grindelwald took me prisoner the night after Goldstein’s demotion,” Graves said. “I have no fucking clue how long it’s been. Close to five months, I suspect.” He hadn’t had any way of reliably marking time before Grindelwald had brought Credence to him.

_Credence._

“Where is Credence?” he demanded.

“You’re part of an ongoing investigation. You don’t get to ask questions right now,” Seraphina told him.

“The fuck I don’t,” snarled Graves. _“Where is Credence?”_

“Both of you, calm down,” the Bluebird snapped. She glowered at Seraphina. “I have no idea why I thought you’d be reasonable about this. Peas in a pod, the pair of you. Put your wand away, girl. I can kill him faster than you can, and I don’t need a wand to do it.” She scowled at Graves. “If you make me kill you after I spent so much time putting you back together, you will regret it.”

Aelinor Bluebird was probably the only person in the world – outside of Genevieve Picquery, who could have put the fear of Georgia matriarchs in Merlin himself – who could get away with calling Seraphina _girl._

Graves levered himself into a sitting position – it was hard to look threatening when you were flat on your back – and bared his teeth at the Bluebird in his best menacing smile. “Tell me where Credence is, and I’ll forget that you said anything about wandless murder,” he said. For now, at any rate. He filed it away to follow up on. He didn’t think the Bluebird would use that skill for anything but a mercy kill or self-defense, but he didn’t like knowing she could do it. Which was probably why the Bluebird had mentioned it in the first place, come to think of it.

He hoped like hell it was something Charlotte Summersea would never have to learn. He’d arranged for her apprenticeship with the Bluebird so that she could learn to save lives, not take them. 

“Credence Barebone,” Seraphina said sharply, “is resting in a hospital room of his own, under adequate supervision.” 

She knew who he was, then. There was something about the way she said _Barebone_ that Graves didn’t like. He’d missed something, while he’d been Grindelwald’s prisoner. Something important; something that brought the Barebone name out of history and into current events.

What had the awful No-Maj woman done now? Had Goldstein gone after her again?

If Goldstein had gone after Mary Lou Barebone again, Graves would wring her neck himself. He wanted Goldstein in Major Investigations, not drummed out of MACUSA entirely.

Graves narrowed his eyes. Seraphina narrowed hers right back, in a way that suggested she was more than willing to throw down with him if he pushed her any further.

Graves hadn’t actually tried dueling Seraphina since he was sixteen and therefore too stupid to live. Seraphina was the stronger witch, but he was better in a fight. They’d been too evenly matched. They’d known one another too well; he’d known all of her tricks, her tells, just like she’d known all of his. Which hadn’t stopped either of them from fighting dirty, or from winding up in Ilvermorny’s infirmary by the time Professor Moreau made them stop. They’d wound up calling that duel a draw. He wasn’t sure, even to this day, which one of them would win if it came down to a real fight.

Graves decided he could wait for information on current events. Credence was more important, anyway.

“Is he safe?” he asked. “What about the child? Is he…?”

“They’re both safe and healthy,” the Bluebird assured him.

Graves relaxed minutely. The Bluebird wouldn’t lie. Not about that. She took the safety of her patients very seriously.

He looked Seraphina in the eye. “Grindelwald knows my tells because he was watching me, and he’s a gifted mimic for all that he’s a fucking psychopath. He knows my history because I told him what he needed to know to pass as me. I didn’t want to tell him anything. The alternative was letting him torture me until I was a brain-burned husk, or living with the knowledge that he killed everyone I ever cared for because they saw through his act. I have never, ever willingly worked for or collaborated with Gellert Grindelwald. Dose me with veritaserum if you like; I’ve nothing to hide.”

“His injuries are consistent with prolonged torture,” the Bluebird murmured. “Magical and otherwise.”

Seraphina closed her eyes. “I want to believe you,” she said, finally lowering her wand. “But I don’t know if I can trust you, Percival. Not anymore.”

“I know,” Graves said. He’d violated Seraphina’s trust in a hundred small ways when he’d told Grindelwald how to pass for the real Percival Graves. The worst betrayal had been when he’d told Grindelwald how to pick a fight with her. It had been the only way he had of keeping her safe, but he knew full well there was no coming back from that. He didn’t blame her for not trusting him.

Losing Seraphina’s trust was a small price to pay, seeing as it kept her alive.

“I’m going to have you dosed with veritaserum,” she warned. “And then I’m going to pull in one of the Legilimens interrogators. They’re going to put you through every single second of the last five and a half months, and then it’ll go in a Pensieve to be dissected by a special tribunal.”

“I know,” Graves said again. “Do what you have to, Seraphina. I certainly did. I can live with the consequences.”

“Damn it, Percival,” Seraphina said. Her eyes were wet. Graves couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry. She kissed his cheek.

Graves’ own eyes were damp, but that was just because he’d been so recently unconscious and the lights in his hospital room were bright. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that Seraphina was crying.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she told him briskly, and Disapparated.

“Do you know, that’s the sort of thing that has half my nurses convinced you’ve been having a torrid affair for the last decade?” the Bluebird inquired, before Graves could compose himself.

“A _what?”_ Graves demanded, utterly horrified.

“Both of you are completely unreasonable when the other one is hurt,” the Bluebird continued, utterly ruthless. “Don’t even try and argue with me on that, Graves, I remember how much you hovered the last time Madam President decided she was a first responder. I also remember how you didn’t stop bitching at her for a solid hour after she woke up, too.”

“Because bitching at someone is a sign of torrid romance,” Graves said scathingly.

The Bluebird lifted her eyebrows at him. “You bitch at the people you care about, Graves. It’s one of the many dysfunctional ways you express your affections.”

“I am not having a torrid affair with Seraphina!”

_“I_ know that,” the Bluebird said. “Because I am not a romantic ninny. My staff, on the other hand…”

“Oh, fucking hell,” said Graves.

“Quite,” the Bluebird said. She looked amused.

“You need to give them more to do,” Graves told her. “That’s what I do with the junior Aurors, when the gossip starts getting out of control.” More work didn’t keep them too busy for gossip – _nothing_ kept the junior Aurors too busy for gossip – but it tended to make them too resentful to talk about it. The smarter ones noticed the uptick in work every time they got caught gossiping, and eventually they learned to be subtle. At least until they made Senior Auror, at any rate, at which point they promptly backslid into embracing gossip as a source of information and life’s blood.

He tilted his head back and studied the Bluebird. The crows feet around her eyes were a little more deeply etched, as were the dark circles under them. Despite her evident exhaustion, the Bluebird’s green eyes were still bright and sharp. She studied him back, waiting to see what he would do.

“I’m still a suspect, aren’t I?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Unwilling participant or not, you still fed Grindelwald information.”

“And yet they still left you and Seraphina alone with me.”

“Madam President was very persuasive,” the Bluebird demurred.

“Madam President had a hissy fit, you mean,” Graves sighed. No one on his team had the authority to override Seraphina, although McRory and Hughes had probably tried. The other department heads knew better than to get in Seraphina’s way when she was in a mood.

“It was very persuasive,” the Bluebird said again.

“Your nurses are having a field day, aren’t they?”

“I think they may be working on a romance novel,” the Bluebird said thoughtfully. “Collectively. Heaven help us if they decide to publish it. Admittedly, the fact that you were found with a pregnant young _wizard_ complicates the issue somewhat. Half of them seem to think that you were his protector and that the child is Grindelwald’s, and the other half are convinced that you and he had some sort of epic romance while imprisoned.”

_“Please_ keep the stupid ones away from Credence,” Graves sighed. “He’s … well, he’s not exactly fragile, but he does take things to heart. He doesn’t need to hear that sort of nonsense.”

The Bluebird gave one of her rare, tinkling laughs. It made her sound like a girl of sixteen and not a witch in her prime. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said. “Your sister scared most of the stupid ones off.”

“She _what,”_ Graves said flatly. What was Dindrane doing in New York? The Fisher Institute was based out of Boston, where Dindrane and Robert lived. “Wait, _Dindrane_ is your idea of adequate supervision?”

“She’s family,” the Bluebird reminded him. “She was quite insistent on that. I could hardly turn her away. Besides, she’s done a better job of keeping Credence calm and in his hospital bed than anyone else has so far.”

“Why is he still in a hospital bed?” Graves demanded. “I thought you said he was healthy!” He hesitated. “Is it the child? Grindelwald didn’t bother to feed us, that last twenty-four hours or so.”

“I’d say he went without feeding you for considerably longer than that,” the Bluebird said tartly. “And he’s perfectly healthy. A bit underweight, but not in a way that’s dangerous to Credence or the child. The only thing that’s _wrong_ with him is that he’s pregnant and entirely the wrong gender to be carrying a child. His body wasn’t built for it.” 

“The androgenesis spells –”

“Were badly done,” the Bluebird said bluntly. “Grindelwald favored brute force over precision and it shows. He used the older variants of the androgenesis spells that are harder on the carrier; they’re not Dark, precisely, but they’re not spells you’d use on someone you cared for.”

“I suspect it was blood magic,” Graves said. “A life for a life.”

Blood magic wasn’t inherently Dark, although it was rarely used by anyone but Dark wizards. It was old, though. Blood magic had been old magic when Merlin was a boy, and it was better left forgotten.

“Yes,” the Bluebird said. “A life for a life.”

Graves closed his eyes. He could think of few lives more appropriate to use than one of the parents. “Credence’s life?”

“No,” the Bluebird said. “Not intentionally, at any rate. It’s a good thing you got him out of there when you did. Much longer and there almost certainly would have been complications.”

Well. There was new fodder for nightmares that Graves didn’t need.

“What about now?” Graves asked. “If the spells were badly done, what kind of care does he need? Should Credence be monitored? Would _you_ monitor his case? I know you prefer the trauma cases, but I will fund a new wing in his name if that’s what it takes. I don’t care about the cost.”

The Bluebird stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “You really love him, don’t you?”

He was my whole world, while I was stuck in that fucking cage, Graves thought. He still is. Credence kept me from going mad. He has the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, and enough courage to bring me to my knees. Of _course_ I love him.

He couldn’t tell the Bluebird that, though. 

“Please,” he said instead. “I’ll do anything, Aelinor. Name your price.”

The Bluebird patted his hand, which Graves found more than a little terrifying. The Bluebird was a gifted Healer, but her bedside manner had never been what he’d call reassuring. The fact that she was actively _trying_ to be reassuring made him think something terrible had happened despite her reassurances that everything was fine.

Maybe something terrible was _going_ to happen.

“I’m glad to see you’re just as stupid as everyone else is as a first-time father,” she said, sounding amused. “I keep telling you: Credence is healthy. Your child is healthy. They’re going to be fine.”

“You just said the androgenesis spells were badly done and that there would have been complications,” Graves pointed out. “That seems like cause for concern.”

“Yes. They _were_ badly done. Note the past tense. Honestly, Graves, do you really think I’d let _Grindelwald’s_ shoddy spellwork go uncorrected when it could mean my patient’s life? I’d sooner hang up my caduceus.”

The Bluebird looked a little like she wanted to hit him over the head for being stupid. That was how the Bluebird normally looked at people though, so Graves didn’t take it personally.

“I smoothed things out so that everything’s where it should be,” the Bluebird informed him. “Credence runs no more risk of complication than any other pregnant wizard.”

“Thank Merlin,” he said, relieved.

“Thank _me,”_ said the Bluebird, a faint smile surfacing beneath the irritation.

“I intend to,” Graves said. “I will send you so many flowers and chocolate your nurses will think I’m harboring a secret passion for _you_ instead.”

“Matthew won’t like that,” the Bluebird said, sounding like she was going to enjoy her husband’s displeasure quite a bit.

“I could send him flowers too, if you’d like,” Graves offered. He probably ought to anyway. Matthew Bellamy owned the Luminaria and also served as its head chef. Graves meant to take Credence there, once they’d been cleared by Major Investigations. He’d need to bribe Bellamy into reserving the whole restaurant for him.

“And convince both our staffs that you’re angling for a ménage à trois? No, thank you.”

“Please go away now,” Graves said, more than a little traumatized by that particular mental image. The Bluebird was possessive about her people. Bellamy was worse. Both of them knew entirely too many ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident. “I think the interrogators might be a blessing after this.”

“Oh, you’re not being interrogated just yet,” the Bluebird said. “Major Investigations is still gathering information. And Seraphina was serious about dosing you with veritaserum with a Legilimens in the room, which means that I, as your doctor, will be present as well. You’re going to stay put. If you’re a very good boy and don’t aggravate any of your multitudinous injuries, your sister can visit later.”

“What about Credence?” Graves asked. “When can I see him?”

“Credence is also part of an ongoing investigation,” the Bluebird reminded him.

Which meant that Major Investigations would keep them separated until their stories checked out.

Well, fuck.

Part of Graves wanted to say the hell with Major Investigations and go find Credence anyway. He’d be somewhere on this floor – the private rooms were easier to secure, and Graves had visited enough victims in the hospital to know his way around well enough. 

Except if he did that, he risked complicating the investigation. If Major Investigations thought that he had biased Credence’s testimony, they wouldn’t be able to use it as evidence. Not even his position as head of MLE would protect him if he were convicted of witness tampering. 

He knew that, and yet …

“Stay put, or I will skin you and turn you into a rug,” the Bluebird said, like she could tell what he was thinking. She probably could. “I mean it, Graves.”

“I don’t think I’d make a very attractive rug,” Graves said, trying to gauge her sincerity. “Wouldn’t skinning me and turning me into book leather make more sense?”

“You’re too hairy for book leather,” the Bluebird said. “You might make a decent rug, though.”

Graves didn’t think she’d actually skin him, but whatever punishment she came up with would be unpleasant and creative. “I’ll stay put,” he said.

“Good,” said the Bluebird, but that didn’t stop her from warding the door _and_ the window on her way out.

“Fantastic,” Graves said, flopping back onto soft clean sheets and glaring at the ceiling. “I escaped prison for _yet more fucking prison.”_

At least Credence was safe.

 

*

 

The Bluebird consented to let Credence out of his completely unnecessary hospital bed to be statemented by MACUSA. (Credence felt fine. He didn’t need a hospital bed, he just needed Percival. If Dindrane would take her eyes off of him for _two seconds_ he could go _find_ Percival and prove it. She didn’t, though.) The Bluebird also agreed to let him walk on his own two feet after he snapped and told her that he was _pregnant_ not an _invalid_ and then spent the next five minutes blushing so hard he thought he’d pass out from sheer embarrassment and make the wheelchair a necessity anyway. Ma would’ve belted him something awful if she’d heard him backtalk someone like that; it was sinful and _rude_ and Credence had been raised with better manners than that.

The Bluebird seemed to like rude, though. So did Dindrane, if her laughter was any indicator.

He followed them both down the hall to meet with Seraphina and a colored man who could only be Mr. Summersea. He was tall and lean with close-cropped grey hair, just like Percival said he was. He wore a neatly pressed dark suit and a thoughtful expression.

“Collins isn’t senior enough to sit in on something like this,” Mr. Summersea said, by way of explanation. “Senior Auror John Summersea. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“No, sir,” Credence said automatically.

They sat around a small round table in a room that looked sterile and bland. There was a picture of a field of flowers hanging on the wall, and a basket of neatly pressed white handkerchiefs at the center of the table. There was a window looking out over a courtyard in the far wall.

It looked, Credence thought, like the sort of room you went to in order to receive bad news. He was so distracted by that thought it took him a full five minutes to realize that the flowers in the picture were _moving._ They swayed gently, as if caressed by some unseen breeze. Credence had no idea what they were, but he half-expected them to have a scent, too. He wanted to get up and check, but he didn’t.

Mr. Summersea caught him looking. _Everyone_ caught him looking, which Credence was a little mortified by, but Mr. Summersea was the one who’d been designated to ask the questions, so he did.

“Have you not seen a wizarding photo before?”

Credence shook his head. “I was raised by ordinary people,” he said. “No-Maj’s,” he clarified, using the wizarding word for it. “Everything about this world is new to me. Magical,” he added, because it was.

“Okay,” said Mr. Summersea, like this wasn’t out of the ordinary at all. “Have you ever given a police statement before?”

Credence shook his head. The lawmen didn’t come around his old neighborhood much.

“Alright,” Mr. Summersea said. “We’ll ask a few questions, starting with your name. Then we’d like you to tell us about what happened, when Mr. Grindelwald took you prisoner. Don’t worry about trying to keep things in order. Just tell us what you remember.”

“That’s it?” Credence asked. That would be easy. He remembered everything, or close enough to it. It was one of the things that made Percival say he’d be a good Auror.

“That’s it,” Mr. Summersea confirmed. “Is it alright if we start?”

“Please,” Credence said.

“Can you state your name for the record?” He gestured to the notepad he’d placed on the table and the pen hovering in midair above it.

“Credence Graves,” said Credence, watching the pen write that down without any help from Mr. Summersea.

“And before that your name was?”

“Credence Barebone. If I had a name before that one, I don’t know what it was. I think Ma changed it when she adopted me, though. She said being named for a virtue would help me overcome my sinful nature.” Credence hesitated, and then added, “I don’t want to talk about Ma. Do I have to?”

Mr. Summersea exchanged a look with Seraphina.

Credence probably needed to get used to thinking of Seraphina as President Picquery. She was Percival’s friend, not his, and the magical president besides. That deserved nothing less than good manners and respect.

President Picquery shook her head minutely.

Credence took that as a signal to continue. “The first time I met Mr. Grindelwald he was pretending to be Percival. He took a flyer from me and asked if I believed magic was real. When I said I did he said he could use it to heal my hands.”

“What was wrong with your hands?” Mr. Summersea asked.

Credence curled one hand up under the table, because he didn’t want to talk about Ma and now he had to. He put the other one palm up on the table. “Ma thought I was sinful,” he said. He let Mr. Summersea and President Picquery see his scars. The Bluebird and Dindrane had already seen them, and both of them were nice enough not to ask how he’d gotten them.

“Mr. Grindelwald was still pretending to be Percival, so he pretended to be kind,” Credence said, fisting both hands in his lap. “He said he’d had a vision of me. That I was special. That only I could help him find a magical child – one that was in danger, who needed both our help. I was stupid and I wanted to be special, so I believed him.

“I looked for the child. I did. For two weeks, I looked, and then one day Mr. Grindelwald met me in the alley near the church and said I needed to come with him. He did – whatever it is that people do when they use magic to get from one place to another.”

“Apparition. He Apparated you somewhere?”

Credence nodded. “I don’t know where. A house. He brought me to the top of the basement stairs, and he dragged me down to see the _real_ Percival. Mr. Grindelwald said that he was keeping Percival alive and brought me to him because he’d had a vision of our child. Mr. Grindelwald has the gift of prophecy. Like John the Baptist,” he explained, before he remembered Biblical figures meant nothing to magical people. “Like Merlin,” he said, because Merlin had the gift of prophecy too, and they had to know who he was.

He unclenched his right fist and rested it protectively against his belly.

“Mr. Grindelwald told him that he’d Seen our child, and that the two of us would produce a wizard so powerful that the armies of the world would tremble before him. He said our son would be the first and most honored of his generals, and that they’d usher in a new era of peace and prosperity for wizardkind. Percival told him that he should’ve just said yes when he’d asked Mr. Grindelwald if he was out of his mind, because it would’ve been shorter. Mr. Grindelwald didn’t like that very much.”

President Picquery was watching him with a calm, serene expression, but that put a very tiny smile at one corner of her mouth. The tiny smile vanished a second later, when Credence started talking again, recounting as much of that first, terrifyingly confusing conversation as he could recall.

Dindrane visibly seethed when he explained about the torture curse and the potion that tasted like liquid starlight. Credence did not think that he could bear to explain the details of what happened after that, not with three women in the room. He wasn’t sure he could explain the details to Mr. Summersea, either. He made a feeble hand gesture and just said, “Percival was – kind. And in the morning Mr. Grindelwald took me back to Ma and said he’d come for me in a week.”

At some point, a tray with ginger tea and coffee and cookies appeared on the table. Credence gratefully drank his tea. He wasn’t used to talking so much. Dindrane had some too, while everyone else reached for the coffee like it contained manna from heaven.

He wondered, just for a second, if Dindrane was with child too. He realized how stupid that was a second later. Everything he’d said so far gave Dindrane a reason to drink ginger tea in order to settle her stomach.

Credence told them, as briefly as he could, about Ma punishing him and how Mr. Grindelwald had been angry because Credence _wasn’t_ with child. President Picquery narrowed her eyes just a fraction when Credence described how Percival had bargained with Mr. Grindelwald for food.

“It was strange,” Credence admitted. “Everything about the way Percival and Mr. Grindelwald treated one another was strange. Percival _hates_ Mr. Grindelwald, and I think Mr. Grindelwald must hate him back, or at least like torturing him. But at the same time it was almost like Mr. Grindelwald _liked_ Percival’s defiance. And not just because it gave him a reason to hurt Percival, either. I think he thought it was entertaining.”

He shook his head to clear it and went back to his statement. He told them about that dinner from the Waldorf-Astoria and the potions that tasted like liquid spring and liquid starlight. He skipped over the sex in favor of telling them about the next morning – about how Grindelwald had thrown a slashing hex at them, and Percival had covered Credence with his own body and gotten those scars on his left forearm and his cheek trying to keep Credence from harm.

Credence thought he heard the Bluebird hiss when she heard about that, but Mr. Summersea just nodded and asked what happened next.

“Perhaps we should break for lunch?” the Bluebird suggested.

Credence realized that he’d been talking for the better part of two hours at that point.

“I think we ought to put this in a Pensieve in segments,” Dindrane murmured.

“Agreed,” said President Picquery.

Mr. Summersea summoned Miss Goldstein, who arrived just after lunch with a tray of vials full of silver-grey liquid. Credence watched, disturbed, as each of them pressed the tip of their wands to their temples and pulled a silver thread of something from their heads and deposited it in their vials.

“Pensieves are used to store memories,” Dindrane explained softly, as Miss Goldstein labeled each of the vials with the name, date and time of each person who had given her one. “They’re useful in police investigations like this one, because they can be used to review testimony at a later time. Most people use them to capture memories.”

Mr. Summersea sent Miss Goldstein back to the Woolworth building with the memory-filled vials. Miss Goldstein looked like she wanted to protest that, but she just nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

She also left a box of pastries behind. “To keep your strength up,” she said. 

President Picquery made an exasperated noise when she opened the box up. The box was full of gorgeous pastries shaped like animals Credence had never seen before. 

“I am going to be _so_ glad when Graves gets back to work and she’s his problem,” she sighed. “She’s incorrigible.”

Mr. Summersea snagged a pastry animal with a duck’s bill and fat bottom and little raisin eyes. “You know the first thing he’s going to do is put her in Major Investigations. It’s where he wanted her all along.”

“She’ll still be his problem,” the President said, downing her coffee like she wished it contained something stronger.

“Win’s going to corrupt her,” Mr. Summersea predicted darkly, following the President’s example with his coffee.

The pastry animal with raisin eyes looked good, so Credence took one too. He discovered that the creatures rounded belly was stuffed with golden raisins and chopped walnuts and sweetened with sugar and honey. He looked around and saw that the Bluebird was already on her second snake-shaped pastry, powdered sugar littering the table in front of her, and decided that it was probably alright to have a second one.

He savored the second pastry. It was easier to give his statement when he could focus on picking it apart, rewarding himself for getting through all the times he’d been terrified and confused with a small lump of sweet dough and nuts. Mr. Summersea told him to focus on Grindelwald, so Credence did. He told them everything he could remember about Percival’s conversations with Mr. Grindelwald and left out everything Percival had said to him. He didn’t tell them about Percival telling him stories about King Arthur or Merlin or how the wizarding world worked; about Percival’s patience and his kindness and protective nature.

They were Percival’s people, though. It was alright not to tell them those things, because they had to already know.

President Picquery got up and looked out the window when he recounted how Percival had told Mr. Grindelwald to pick a fight with her, and why he’d done it. She folded her arms across her chest and kept her back to them while he explained that Percival hadn’t wanted to do it – that it had killed something in him to tell Mr. Grindelwald how to hurt her, because Credence had seen the raw anguish on his face, afterwards, when Percival didn’t think he was looking. 

“He threatened to bring you to our cell,” he told her. “He said he could put Percival to stud on you like he had on me, and get two generals out of the Graves bloodline, because your bloodline was powerful too. Percival told him if he was going to do that, he’d have already done it. Mr. Grindelwald said that was true, and that it would be fitting if he killed you when everyone thought he was Percival because you trusted him. He didn’t want to do that just yet, though, so Percival said he should pick a fight and make you angry, so you would leave Mr. Grindelwald alone. I think … I think he meant to do it to keep you safe, because if you’d noticed Mr. Grindelwald wasn’t acting like Percival was, he’d have killed you like he killed Norton.” 

President Picquery’s shoulders shook, just a little. Credence grabbed one of the handkerchiefs from the basket at the center of the table and got up to give it to her, because he knew all too well what it looked like when someone was trying not to cry. He kept his eyes averted and didn’t try to touch her, careful to leave her the illusion of privacy.

Mr. Summersea looked like someone had punched him in the gut. “What happened to Norton?”

“Mr. Grindelwald killed him,” Credence told him, sitting down again. “Right after Norton came to New York, weeks ago. Did you … didn’t you know that?”

“Norton’s been declared a Missing Person,” Mr. Summersea said. “He’s dead?”

“Mr. Grindelwald said he was going to kill him,” Credence said. “I don’t think he was lying about that.”

Mr. Summersea closed his eyes. “Shit,” he said quietly. _“Jamie.”_

Percival had never told him Norton’s first name. Credence realized that Mr. Summersea must have cared for Norton, too. That news of Norton’s death hurt Mr. Summersea just as badly as it had hurt Percival.

“We can stop if you need to,” he offered. “I can finish giving you my statement tomorrow.” Credence would’ve preferred not to, since giving his statement meant he could see Percival again, but he didn’t want to make things any worse. Not when Percival’s people were so obviously hurting.

That got him startled looks from everyone. Dindrane dragged him into a hug and pressed a kiss against his temples. 

“No,” said President Picquery, returning to the table. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she had the handkerchief he’d given her crumpled in one fist, but her face was pale with fury, not tears. “We’ll see this through.”

“You’re the one who had to endure this first hand,” Mr. Summersea said. “I should be the one asking you that.”

“There’s not much else to tell,” Credence said. He didn’t want to tell them about the sex, which wasn’t relevant information anyhow, seeing as it had nothing to do with Mr. Grindelwald. And he hadn’t been telling them about Percival’s stories, or the lessons, so there really _wasn’t_ much else to tell, except for the part where Mr. Grindelwald had taken Percival’s advice and dragged him off to be tortured somewhere Credence couldn’t see it happening and their escape.

The Bluebird cursed under her breath when he explained how Mr. Grindelwald had thrown Percival’s unconscious body into their cell like garbage, littered with shoe-shaped bruises. Her expression got darker when he described how Percival had been unconscious for two weeks, and what he'd done to keep Percival alive. And absolutely _everyone_ went stiff with rage when he told them exactly what Percival had done to get them free, and why.

“And that’s when you found us,” Credence finished. He was exhausted, he realized, in ways that had nothing to do with his pregnancy. Talking all day _shouldn’t_ have been exhausting, but it had been awful, recounting everything that happened.

“Thank you, Credence,” President Picquery said, laying one of her hands over his own. “You’ve been very brave.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Summersea told him, shaking his hand but not meeting his eyes. He looked the way Mr. Collins had, when he’d said that he wasn’t sure Percival would still want them for his team. Like he thought he’d failed Percival somehow, and was too ashamed to even say so.

The Bluebird told him she’d be by to check on him later, which just left him with Dindrane.

Dindrane dragged him into a fierce hug. No one had ever really hugged Credence before, other than Percival, whose hugs were safe and all-encompassing. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his arms. Dindrane held onto him like she wanted to make sure he could feel it all the way to his bones. “You’re too good for my idiot brother,” she whispered in his ear. “But I am so, so glad he found you, and that you love him. You’re going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” Credence said, giving up on trying to figure out what he was supposed to be doing and just clinging back.

“No,” she told him. “It really isn’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has some briefly ouchy feels regarding the death of a child character, and the tags have been updated accordingly. I needed to deal with the events of Fantastic Beasts and who the Obscurial was if it wasn't Credence. (So, three guesses who it was. Sorry.) Message me on tumblr if you need further clarification and/or warnings.
> 
> This is also the THIRD FREAKING TIME I have attempted to post this chapter. Oh, the joys of unreliable wifi while traveling.

It took Seraphina just under twenty-four hours to set up an interrogation with the Bluebird, Hughes, and Parrish, who Graves recognized as one of the Legilimens interrogators. He couldn’t recall ever working a case with Parrish, though, which he suspected was why Parrish had been selected. Parrish was a few years younger than Graves himself was but he looked a few years older.

Seeing people’s darkest secrets probably had that effect on people.

Graves half-expected them to Apparate him to the Woolworth building, but they set up camp at the hospital, in one of the waiting rooms. Graves vaguely recognized it as the one where the Healers took families when they needed to deliver bad news and wanted to avoid public breakdowns. He’d used it himself a time or two, when the case called for it.

“I want it on record that I think this is stupid,” Parrish announced, taking a seat next to Hughes at the little round table. 

Having Parrish, Hughes and Seraphina on one side of the table with only the Bluebird close enough to touch should have felt intimidating. Like it was four against one, or something equally stupid. (It wasn’t, Graves knew, entirely stupid. It worked as an intimidation tactic on most suspects and members of the public.)

Mostly, Graves felt annoyed. He wanted this over and done with so he could find out how Credence was doing for himself.

Hughes rolled her eyes. “Your objection has been noted. For the record. Just like it has the last five fucking times you brought it up.” Her tone suggested that if Parrish brought it up a seventh time, she was going to hex him and that she wouldn’t regret doing it, either.

“I’m just saying,” Parrish continued, because he clearly had no sense of self-preservation, “everyone knows that the Director is a skilled Occlumens, which makes dosing him with veritaserum _and_ having me use Legilimency on him a waste of department time and resources. My presence here will do nothing to ensure he’s telling the truth.”

“If it helps,” Graves said dryly, “I’ve agreed to cooperate.”

“The giant stone fortress you’ve got in the head says otherwise, sir,” Parrish said, skirting around said giant stone fortress warily. It was entirely possible Graves had just met a Legilimens less subtle than Queenie Goldstein. 

Goldstein the Younger would have been preferable, honestly.

“Fucking hell, why are there _traps?”_ Parrish yelped.

Graves made a conscious decision to relax his mental defenses. “Because I’m the Head of MLE, and I don’t like being spied on.” He managed not to say _you moron,_ but Parrish heard _that_ thought loud and clear if the way he scowled was any indicator.

“This is off to a great start,” the Bluebird said caustically.

“No,” said Seraphina. “I think the word you’re looking for is embarrassing.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Hughes. “Sir, would you _please_ let the Bluebird dose you with something that’ll mellow you out enough for this idiot to rummage around in your head for a bit?” She gave the Bluebird a pleading look. “Please tell me you’ve got something that’ll do that, because this is going to be a complete shitshow if you don’t. Well,” she added, considering. “Even more of a shitshow than it already is, I suppose.”

“A calming draught might help,” the Bluebird said.

“I don’t need one,” Graves said. He felt Parrish try to slip into his thoughts again and nudged the man towards one of the thought-clusters of pure memory from the war on instinct. He realized a second later that he really shouldn’t have done so, seeing as it completely invalidated the theory that he didn’t need a calming draught.

“You put _landmines_ in your brain,” Parrish said, sweaty and a little shrill. “Forgive me for objecting, sir.”

“I’ll monitor you for adverse effects,” the Bluebird said. “But medically speaking, Graves, it’s for the best to listen to Hughes.”

“That is the single most terrifying thing you’ve ever said to me,” Graves said. Which said something, because the last time he’d been seriously hurt, it had been because he’d cast a shield charm on Seraphina to protect her from an idiot with a gun, and then he’d put _himself_ between the gunman and Seraphina’s shield. 

He’d woken up to see the Bluebird _and_ Seraphina scowling at him. The Bluebird had threatened to reach down his throat and pull his balls back up into his body just for fun before she physically turned him inside out. Except she hadn’t phrased it like that; she’d been extremely explicit about which organs and viscera she’d need to rip through to accomplish inverting his testicles, and then moved on to describing the best Dark spells for turning stupid people inside out _while they were still breathing._

“Thanks, boss,” said Hughes.

“Fine,” said Graves. “Do what you need to do.”

The Bluebird prescribed him a tablespoon of sky blue liquid that Graves recognized as his brother-in-law’s particular variant on the Draught of Peace. It had similar side effects as far as reducing anxiety and agitation went, but it also mimicked the effects of a Calming Potion, because it relaxed anyone who took it enough to lower their inhibitions. It was incredibly useful as far as questioning suspects went, although the Courts were still hashing out the ethics of it. For the moment, use of it during interrogations was only permissible by executive order of the president herself and with the suspect’s explicit written consent.

“Keeping things in the family?” he asked, because he couldn’t help himself.

“Healer Aelinor Bluebird, you are hereby ordered to administer the Flores Draught to Percival Alexander Graves for the purposes of interrogation,” Seraphina said formally, dictating the words onto MACUSA’s official letterhead with her wand. She signed and dated it with a flourish. “Percival Alexander Graves, do you consent to be administered with the Flores Draught for the purposes of interrogation?”

“Yes,” said Graves, signing his own name beneath Seraphina’s. “Also, why the hell hasn’t Robert made you rename that yet? He hates having his name attached to his potions.”

“Mostly because it’s reference as the Flores Draught in too much existent legislative squabbling and no one wants to go back and change them,” Seraphina said absently. For a second, it was almost like things were normal – the way they were before Grindelwald had captured him, when he was Seraphina’s trusted right hand – and then Seraphina realized what she’d done and flinched back like he’d struck her.

Graves flinched too, because being confronted with the reality of losing Seraphina’s trust felt like he’d been gutted. Grindelwald had taken his name, his face, his rank – all of which was awful enough on its own without witnessing firsthand that he’d lost Seraphina, too.

He took his medicine like a good little Auror and let the Flores Draught trick him into feeling relaxed and peaceful and safe.

The Bluebird put three drops of veritaserum in the empty glass and filled it almost to the brim with fifteen year old Roanoke Vanishing Rye Whiskey. The whiskey turned invisible as soon as it hit the glass, but Graves could still smell it. The glass, when he lifted it, sloshed invisible liquor over his fingers.

“That _can’t_ be medically sound,” said Parrish, sounding equal parts horrified and fascinated.

“You haven’t spent much time around Director Graves, have you?” Hughes asked. “Trust us. It’ll help.”

“I haven’t had alcohol since the night Goldstein was demoted,” Graves pointed out. “If I drink all that, I will be drunk enough that my testimony will be inadmissible.” He wasn’t especially bothered by that at the moment, although he would be pissed if he had to give his statement again. He’d just be pissed about it later, once the potions wore off.

Graves hated the Flores Draught. He’d been one of Robert’s initial test subjects, and he’d forgotten how much he hated being aware of his emotional responses while also being totally divorced from them. It was unnerving as hell.

“Drink slowly,” the Bluebird advised. “It won’t take much to let the veritaserum take effect. Relax, Graves. Let Parrish in.”

Graves sighed and obediently took a sip of his whiskey. The Bluebird should have offered him a cheaper pour, he thought. He was in no state to appreciate fifteen year old Roanoke.

He stood for a second in his own mind, safe in the walls he’d built and shored up brick by brick over the years. He hid his secrets here: his and Seraphina’s and MACUSA’s. He’d kept them safe behind traps and landmines and blood – so much blood, almost all of it his, spilled in MACUSA’s defense. Not even Grindelwald had breached these walls, although he’d also favored torture over trying. 

He closed his eyes and threw the doors open. “Alright,” he said. “Ask your questions. I’ll answer them.”

“Tell me what happened, the night Grindelwald took you prisoner,” Hughes said.

Graves did. He told them everything. What he’d done and why he’d done it. He told them what Grindelwald had done to him, about how he’d weighed his sanity versus his secrets and eventually given in. He told them about how the frequency of Grindelwald’s visits had slowed, until Grindelwald had brought Credence down and demanded something monstrous of him.

Hughes was kind enough to let him skip over bedding Credence, about telling him the stories his mother had told him and teaching him magic. She didn’t ask him about his feelings for Credence – which, he was distantly and mortifyingly certain – were completely obvious anyway. She just asked him about Grindelwald, about when he’d realized what Grindelwald was looking for and what that meant for MACUSA.

“Did he find it?” he asked, having put two and two together sometime last night. The way Seraphina had said _Credence Barebone_ and how he’d known all along that any magical child entrusted to Mary Lou Barebone’s care was an almost guaranteed recipe for an Obscurial. Especially, he thought, if that magical child no longer had an older brother to protect her.

“Whatever plans he had for it will never come to fruition,” Hughes said. “The Obscurial is dead.”

“Who was it?”

“That’s classified, boss.”

“Let me guess,” he said, and not even the Flores Draught could stop the twinge of grief he felt. Not for himself; he hadn’t known the girl. But this would hurt Credence so very deeply, and Credence had been hurt enough. “Modesty Barebone.”

Hughes couldn’t tell him. It was classified information after all, but her silence spoke volumes.

The Obscurial was Modesty Barebone. Credence’s sister was dead.

“Alright,” said Graves. “Where was I?”

“You were doing something stupid,” Hughes said helpfully.

“Win,” Graves said, voice flat because he couldn’t quite summon up annoyance under the cushioning effect of the potion. _“Try_ to be a professional, for fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry, boss. You attempted to disarm Grindelwald using the slashing hex while he had you under _petrificus totalus.”_

Graves sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I was doing something stupid.” He told them every mistake he’d made, and what he ought to have done instead. He told them how Grindelwald had responded, and about the subsequent two weeks of unconsciousness. He didn’t have much relevant information past that, aside from bargaining for Pepper-Up to treat Credence’s cold.

“I was desperate,” he said. “I didn’t know how long Credence could go without food. More than twenty-four hours seemed dangerous. So I risked shattering the wards.”

“How?” the Bluebird inquired. It was the first question she’d asked him the entire four hours he’d been talking. Judging from the ice in her tone, she knew full well how he’d done it and didn’t approve.

Graves took a fortifying drink of whiskey. “I’d been playing possum for three months at that point. Grindelwald thought I was a lot weaker than I was. The first couple months, he’d reinforce the wards every week or so. After awhile, he stopped bothering. I took advantage of that.”

“Do tell,” she said, dripping icicles.

“I broke them,” he said. “I set my magic against Grindelwald’s and I won.” 

“You did a lot more than that,” Parrish muttered. He held a hand up, forestalling anyone else’s objections. “It was very stupid and very violent and if no one makes me talk about it between now and a Pensieve, I will be very happy.” He looked over at Hughes. _“Please_ tell me it’s over.”

“Got anything you want to add, Boss?” Hughes asked.

“I’d like to see my fiancé, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“You maybe want to sober up and get the veritaserum out of your system first.”

Graves gave her an affronted look. “I am not _drunk.”_

“You’re drugged, and your breath smells like a distillery. You think your boy’s going to know the difference?”

No, Graves thought. He set his mostly full glass of whiskey aside and sighed. “I have nothing I want to add, Auror Hughes. I believe I’d like the Bluebird to administer the antidote, with Madam President’s permission.” He looked at Seraphina.

“Granted,” said Seraphina.

“You’d best get out of my head, Parrish,” Graves warned.

“Sir, I say this with all due respect, but I have been out of your head for the last five minutes because it is absolutely the last fucking place in the world I want to be,” Parrish said fervently. “It is a scary, scary place and I do not want to find out what it’s like in there when you’re _not_ cooperating.”

“Good,” Graves said, and slammed the door shut. He mentally rested his head against the heavy iron doors and resolved to build the walls a little bit higher, a little bit thicker, a little more densely trapped. It didn’t matter that he’d _let_ Parrish in. The intrusion still set his nerves on edge.

Parrish bolted almost as soon as he could. Hughes caught hold of his collar and refused to let him get more than a foot away from her. “Boss,” she said.

“Good work, Hughes,” he told her. “That was well done.”

Her answering smile was tremulous. “You’re still under veritaserum, you know,” she pointed out. “So I know you meant that.”

“Get back to work before I change my mind.”

“Would you?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Damnit, Win!”

She laughed and dragged a loudly protesting Parrish with her down the hall. Parrish gesticulated wildly and seemed to be arguing for hazard pay.

The Bluebird fed him the antidote for veritaserum, and a wit-clearing potion to blunt the effects of the Flores Draught. “Lunch will be waiting in your room,” she told him.

“Oh, joy,” said Graves. Yesterday’s meals had been disastrous on many levels, not the least of which was that the calorie rich foods he needed to regain the weight he’d lost had upset his stomach so badly it required medical intervention. Today’s breakfast and lunch had been specially formulated not to upset his stomach and, coincidentally, were about as palatable as some of the rations he’d eaten during the war.

“I think we can try you on some broth,” the Bluebird said, ignoring his sarcasm.

“I can’t wait,” Graves said.

Seraphina kept pace with them all the way back to Graves’ hospital room, not saying a word. Graves didn’t either.

The Bluebird sighed. “Make sure you eat everything on that tray,” she told Graves, very pointedly not saying anything else.

“Traumatizing your patients is unkind,” Graves hissed at her, because he _knew_ she was thinking that this would just add more fuel to his and Seraphina’s imaginary doomed love affair.

“I’m hoping it’ll work like aversion therapy,” she told him. “Maybe the trauma will convince you not to throw yourself in the line of fire every chance you get.”

“That’s ridiculous and medically unsound!” he said, as the Bluebird shut the door – warded once again – behind her.

Seraphina lifted one eyebrow at him.

“Trust me,” he told her. “You don’t want to know.”

He realized, too late, what he’d said. He had no right to Seraphina’s trust. Not anymore.

“Fuck,” he said. “Sorry. That was badly phrased.” Graves couldn’t bring himself to look at her, which was fucking awful on every level he could think of. Seraphina was his oldest friend in the entire world, and he couldn’t even look at her anymore. He’d gambled with her trust, betting it against her life on the off-chance that it would keep her safe. It had, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat, but the fact remained that Grindelwald had made him hurt her.

He didn’t know how to live with that.

It was almost worse, he thought, than what Grindelwald had made him do to Credence. At least that he could control; he’d been careful and kind and he’d done everything he could to make it right. He _would_ make it right, now that he was free. 

He hadn’t been able to do anything about the damage Grindelwald did to his friendship with Seraphina, and the wound had festered exactly like he knew it would.

“Percival,” she commanded.

Graves’ head snapped up, every sense alert. Seraphina still had his allegiance, no matter what else Grindelwald had done.

Seraphina stared at him, her face a study in anguish. “I know why you fed Grindelwald information,” she said. “I know what he threatened to do to me, and that what he wanted _you_ to do to me was worse.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Graves said again, going to his knees. That was the old way of things – the way it was done in his mother’s stories. A man should face his liege lord’s judgement in supplication, baring his neck to the sword.

He wished like hell the Bluebird hadn’t given him anything to counteract the Flores Draught, because the mix of rage and shame he felt was overwhelming. He’d wanted to spare her this. It was stupid thought, he _knew_ it was a stupid thought, and one she wouldn’t thank him for. 

It was his job to keep her safe, though. She didn’t need to know what prices he paid to do it. She didn’t need to carry that weight, not when she had so many other burdens already.

“I know you only fed him information to keep the rest of us safe,” said Seraphina. “I’ll make sure the rest of the special tribunal knows it, too.”

“Don’t throw your career away for me.”

“I’m already in my second term,” Seraphina said. “My career doesn’t matter. But even if I were up for re-election, I’d still fight for you the way you always fight for me.” She dropped to her knees in front of him and grabbed both of Graves’ hands, pressing their palms together. The matching scars from the blood oath they’d sworn their second year at Ilvermorny had faded, but the memory of them remained. “You’re my brother, Percival. Grindelwald stole your face but he didn’t steal that. So let me fight for you for a change.”

Her forgiveness was more than he could bear. Graves let himself collapse into her arms and shake into little pieces, the hypervigilance that had kept him going for the last five and a half months draining away and taking his strength with it. Without it, he was a creature of scraped raw nerves and buried doubts, all of them resurfacing with a vengeance.

He was safe. He _knew_ he was safe, because Seraphina’s arms were around him and he was pressed close enough against her neck to smell her perfume: honeysuckle and beeswax and peaches, all the scents of a Georgia summer condensed into a single blend. He was safe and finally, finally free.

If Seraphina felt his tears against her neck, she was a good enough friend not to call him on them. Graves had no intention of mentioning that he could feel hers, dripping hot against the top of his head. 

He was free and he was safe.

Graves let Seraphina ground him in reality once more and finally let himself believe it.

 

*

 

Graves woke sometime just after dawn, half-expecting to hear Credence retching in the water closet. Except the sheets next to him were cool to the touch, and Credence was nowhere to be seen.

He lunged out of bed with a wordless snarl of rage before he remembered where he was. St. Brigid’s hospital, where he was being treated for malnutrition and spell damage and other acts of Gellert fucking Grindewald. Credence was here too. The Bluebird and Seraphina had both said as much, even if protocol wouldn’t permit Graves to see him until Major Investigations verified both of their statements.

Not, he thought dryly, that there was anyone to verify their statements _with,_ except for one another. He doubted Grindelwald would be a cooperative witness.

Graves stretched carefully, testing his range of motion. The Bluebird had administered a course of Skele-Gro and blood replenishing potion while he’d been unconscious, and while it didn’t make up for the muscle mass or the weight he’d lost, he _felt_ about a hundred times better than he had in months. His bones didn’t ache from the cold or freshly layered fractures. Graves bounced on the balls of his feet, tossing a quick jab in the air just because he could.

He heard someone try the door to his room and had to squash the urge to ready a silent stunning spell. The Bluebird would _not_ be pleased if he accidentally knocked her staff unconscious. He dropped out of his boxing stance, just in case it was the Bluebird. She would also not approve of any sort of strenuous exercise at this point. 

“Percival!” Credence said, darting into the room. He flung himself into Graves’ arms, knocking Graves back against his bed. “You’re alright, you’re alright, you’re alright!” He chanted the words between frantic, desperate kisses.

Graves kissed him back. “I’m fine, I’ll always be fine, I told you everything was going to be alright,” he answered.

Credence pulled back, dark eyes narrowed in annoyance. _“Never do that again!”_ he yelled.

Graves startled, because Credence didn’t yell. Hell, half the time getting Credence to raise his voice past normal speaking volume required either extreme emotional duress or at least two orgasms.

“I was _so scared,”_ Credence said, fisting his hands in Graves’ shirt. “Because you were unconscious and then President Picquery took you away and I didn’t know where you’d gone or how to follow. And Mr. Collins and Miss Goldstein brought me here and then they _wouldn’t let me see you_ because we’re both part of an ongoing investigation, which is a _stupid_ rule, Percival. It really is. All they would tell me was that you’d recover but not how you were, and I didn’t – I _couldn’t_ – believe them. Not without seeing you first. I kept wondering what would happen if you died, because I don’t know how to do this without you, so _stop trying to get yourself killed!”_

“I wasn’t trying to get myself killed,” Graves protested, a little feebly. He’d known that Credence would be magnificent, once he was more comfortable with the wizarding world, but he hadn’t expected his kind-hearted lover to be quite so fierce as soon as they were free. That was, if possible, more than he’d ever heard Credence say all at once the entire time they’d known one another.

“Good,” Credence said, punctuating that statement with another kiss. “You’re not allowed to get killed. Our son needs you. _I_ need you.”

Graves let one of his hands migrate from Credence’s back to his stomach, pressing against the firm swell he found there. “The Bluebird says you’re both healthy, aside from the hash Grindelwald made of the androgenesis spells.”

Credence smiled, his attention clearly turning inward to the child within him. “He’s fine.”

“And you?” Graves prompted, letting the hand on Credence’s stomach drift upward to cup his cheek.

Credence shrugged. “It wasn’t comfortable. The Bluebird told me that fixing it wouldn’t be. I’ve had worse.”

Graves resolved to punch Grindelwald for inflicting even that much more hurt the first chance he got. He doubted he’d be allowed anywhere near Grindelwald’s cell, but he was the Head of MLE, for fuck’s sake. He could find a way.

“You’ll do a much better job, won’t you?” Credence asked. “Next time, I mean. You’re a better wizard than Mr. Grindelwald is.”

“Of course,” Graves promised, before his brain finished sorting that sentence out and got stuck on _next time._

Wait, what? Did that mean what Graves thought it meant?

“Good,” Credence said. He hopped up on Graves’ hospital bed. “I’d like it if you kissed me now,” he said. “Dindrane said she’d give us half an hour for – um. Actually, I don’t think I can repeat that,” he said, face red with embarrassment. “And kissing would be nice, if that’s okay with you.”

Graves moved to stand between Credence’s legs and capture his bottom lip between his teeth. Credence moaned in anticipation and Graves let it go. “I’d like that,” he said. “Just kissing?”

“We’re in the hospital!” Credence said, scandalized.

That wasn’t, Graves noted, the protest he’d been expecting. He’d expected Credence to say that he was too tired for anything else.

Credence didn’t _look_ tired. His eyes were bright and sparkling, and there was a healthy flush on his cheeks.

“There’s all sorts of kissing,” Graves pointed out, because Credence was safe in his arms once more and his primitive hindbrain wanted to celebrate. And maybe, Graves thought, to stake his claim a little. “I could kiss you here,” he said, kissing Credence’s mouth and trailing lower. “Or I could kiss you here,” he said, pressing his palm against Credence’s cock.

“Oh my _god,”_ Credence whimpered. His cock roused with interest, though, not fully hard yet but definitely interested in the proceedings.

“You like it when I kiss you there,” Graves pointed out. Someone – he suspected one of the Bluebird’s army of terrifyingly efficient nurses – had gotten Credence a pair of hospital paternity pants. They were pale blue and soft and, most importantly, only held up with a drawstring, which made it easy to shove them down Credence’s thighs.

“That is not kissing!” hissed Credence, squirming up into Graves’ touch.

“Sure it is,” Graves said cheerfully, pressing Credence back against the bed far enough that he could lean down on it and take Credence’s cock into his mouth. “It’s my mouth, touching you,” he explained, in between teasing it into an erection. “Sucking,” he added, demonstrating just that. “And caressing.”

Credence shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down hard to keep from making a sound.

Graves threw a locking spell at the door and added a silencing charm for good measure. “You can make noise, if you want to,” he said, and went back to sucking Credence’s cock.

“You are _incorrigible,”_ Credence said, managing to make incorrigible sound like a swear word. “And I am not – ah! – encouraging this kind of bad behavior at all. _Oh god.”_

Credence should not have been able to manage words with that many syllables. Graves bent his head to his task, twisting his wrist exactly the way he knew Credence liked it and sucking hard. It was probably cheating, seeing as Credence was young and had newly rediscovered his libido, but Graves wanted to watch Credence fall apart too much to fight fair. 

Credence cried out and came, collapsing back on the bed. He raised himself up on his elbows and glared hazily at Graves. 

Graves swallowed down the spend and grinned at Credence, smug and entirely self-satisfied.

“That was _vastly inappropriate,”_ Credence said, panting. He sounded like he’d managed to hold onto that thought through sheer force of will and nothing else.

“You said kissing,” Graves said. He’d been careful not to take Credence too deeply down his throat, so his voice was only a little bit deeper and scratchier than normal. He leaned down for more kisses – on the mouth this time. “That was kissing.”

“Ngh,” said Credence. 

“Mine,” said Graves, punctuating that with another kiss. “My kind, lovely Credence.”

“Do you want…?” Credence made a vague hand gesture that indicated reciprocation of some kind.

“No,” Graves said. “Not until I can take my time with you. Right now, all I want to do is kiss you until my nosy older sister barges in on us.” He got Credence cleaned up and tucked away.

“You couldn’t have stuck with that plan?” asked Credence. He sounded amused rather than annoyed, though. “Because that was _my_ plan.” He sat up again, so that Graves was leaning up against the bed between his legs once more. 

“I missed you,” Graves confessed. “I didn’t much care for being kept from you either.”

Credence wound his arms around Graves’ neck. “You’re _ridiculous,”_ he said. “Kiss me?”

“Yes, dear,” Graves said.

Credence bit him for that, which Graves figured he deserved. He let himself get lost in kissing Credence and forgot all about the locking spell he’d flung at the door until the handle glowed bright red and melted into nothing.

“Oh, god,” Credence said, as the door swung open.

Graves sighed and pulled away, not bothering to hide his kiss-swollen lips and rumpled hair. “Hello, Dindrane.”

Dindrane looked from him to Credence and smirked. “Well done, Credence,” she said.

 _“Oh, god,”_ Credence said again, trying to hide behind Graves. “It wasn’t – we weren’t –” He lapsed into embarrassed silence, because he couldn’t finish that sentence without lying.

“If you break my fiancé, I will be very upset with you,” Graves warned her.

“I would never,” she said, sounding affronted. “I adore Credence. You, on the other hand, not so much.” She strode into the room and dragged him into a hug that threatened to re-break his newly mended ribs. _“Percival.”_ Her voice was gutted and raw, and it ripped the smug pleasure he’d managed to achieve into shreds.

Graves had only heard her sound like that once before. Dindrane and Robert had been newly married, and Robert had been seriously injured in an experiment gone pyrotechnically wrong. They’d been at lunch when the pigeon from St. Brigid’s arrived. Graves could still remember the awful sound she made, a banshee cry of pure desperation and terror. 

Everyone thought that he was the strong one. He’d been the one to follow their father into MACUSA, to join the Aurors and fight to keep his people safe. He was the warrior of the family, which everyone assumed was synonymous with strength.

Graves knew better. Dindrane was the strongest person he knew. She always had been. He couldn’t bear listening to her make that sound.

“Hush, now,” he crooned, holding on tight enough to bruise. “It’s alright, _a dheirfiúr._ I’m here, I’m safe. Everything’s alright.”

“Don’t you _dheirfiúr_ me, Percival,” she said fiercely. “Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights. If he’d killed you –” Her voice broke.

“It’ll take more than the likes of Gellert Grindelwald to kill me,” Graves assured her. “I’m tougher than that.”

“I heard,” Dindrane said sourly.

“Ah,” said Graves. He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “I was hoping to spare you that.”

“You don’t need to shelter _me,_ Percival,” she said. “I’m your big sister. You’re _my_ responsibility, not the other way around.”

“I think I stopped being your responsibility when I went off to Ilvermorny,” Graves said. “I _definitely_ stopped being your responsibility by the time I graduated.” They’d had this argument before. Dindrane insisted that it didn’t matter how old he was; he would always be her little brother and therefore her responsibility.

Dindrane lifted her forehead away from his and brushed her thumb across the new scar on his left cheek. “You’ll always be my little brother,” she reminded him.

She reached out and dragged Credence into their hug. “And you will always be family,” she told him. “And I swear to you, I will _gut_ that warmongering German prick if he so much as breathes wrong anywhere near you ever again. No one hurts my family and lives.”

Graves felt a savage smile bloom. He and Dindrane had always been like-minded when it counted. “Careful, sister,” he chided. “You’ll frighten my fiancé.”

Credence lifted his chin. “I’m not that easy to frighten,” he said firmly. “If Mr. Grindelwald escapes, you’d better hunt him down so I don’t have to. For our son’s sake, if nothing else,” he added, spreading a hand over his stomach like a shield.

“I like him,” Dindrane told Graves, stepping out of their hug to lean against his hospital bed.

“So do I,” Graves agreed. “I think I’ll keep him.” He considered Credence’s pale skin and dark coloring. “Rubies, do you think?” Rubies would look quite dramatic against Credence’s pale skin. He liked the thought of them glittering there, demonstrating wealth and the promise of blood if anyone raised a hand against him ever again.

Dindrane made a scornful noise in the back of her throat. “Only if you want to be predictable. Sapphires,” she said. “Sapphires and silver.”

“Oh,” Graves said, struck by how much he liked that thought. Credence, decked out in sapphires and silver. They would make him look untouchable and cold, a gorgeous fey creature that no one but him was allowed to touch.

“Sapphires?” Credence asked. He looked a little like he wanted to protest being talked about rather than talked to, and more than a little confused.

“For your bride-gift,” Graves said. “Well. Groom-gift, technically, but since you’re marrying into the Graves family it’s generally thought of as a bride-gift. A ring,” he said, capturing Credence’s long-fingered left hand and caressing his ring finger. “Cufflinks and a tie pin, since you’re a man. But the necklace, bracelet and diadem are yours too, if you want them. You’d look stunning in them, for the record.”

“Um,” said Credence, sounding faintly strangled. _“Jewels?”_

“Perhaps a torc,” Dindrane mused. “Rather than a necklace. Like the one Mother bought Father.”

“Yes,” Graves said, picturing it. He was, admittedly, picturing Credence decked out in jewels and little else, but he didn’t think he could be blamed for that.

“You want to buy _me_ jewels?” Credence asked, poking Graves to get his attention.

Graves blinked, drawn out of his pleasant thoughts. “Who else would I buy jewels for?” he asked. “You’re _my_ fiancé. It’s only proper that I buy you jewels.”

“But,” Credence said. “The cost, Percival. You don’t need to spend that much on me.”

“Of course I do,” said Graves.

Credence set his jaw, looking mulish. “You don’t need to – to _buy_ me, Percival. I’m your partner, not your whore. You _told_ me I was your partner.”

“What?” Graves asked. “That’s not what I want to do.”

Credence scowled, clearly disbelieving.

“It’s _not,”_ Graves insisted, tilting Credence’s head up so that Credence would look him in the eye. “Credence. I swear to you, I don’t want to buy you jewels because I want to buy _you._ That would be vulgar and demeaning. The Graves family has always welcomed new blood with jewels. It’s meant to _honor_ you, to acknowledge that you are precious and loved and also to respect your strength, because bringing forth new life is no easy task.

“I want to shower you in dragots and jewels and the finest clothes money can buy because you deserve nothing less. You are kind and lovely and _mine_ and I mean to spend the rest of my life making sure you don’t regret choosing me for a single second. And I want wizarding America to know that the Graves family accepts you – that anyone who breathes a word of harm in your direction will answer to me.”

“And me,” Dindrane said. “I may not have joined MACUSA, but I am still a Graves. I learned how to fight just as well as Percival did.” 

Credence looked at Dindrane. “Did you give your husband jewels?”

“Yes,” Dindrane said. “I bought Robert a ring and cufflinks and a tie pin made of yellow topaz and set in gold. I thought it would look fantastic against his coloring and I was right. Robert was furious with me.”

“Why?” Credence asked.

“Because he knew what the tradition meant,” Dindrane explained. “He knew I intended to take his name, and that I would be the one to bear our children. The bride-gift is meant to honor the one who does all the hard work to add to our bloodline, and that person wasn’t going to be him.”

“Also,” Graves murmured, “he felt a bit upstaged, seeing as _he_ bought _her_ garnets set in gold to acknowledge everything she’d be giving up, and to show the world that he knew our traditions, and that he loved and honored her for it.”

“That too,” Dindrane said, twitching. She and Robert had something of a knockdown dragout fight over the matter, and subsequently only wore their respective gifts on their anniversary or when they were trying to make a point, usually to one another.

Dindrane and Robert were a little ridiculous, sometimes.

“Oh,” said Credence, frowning thoughtfully. “You never said your family was _wealthy,”_ he grumbled.

“Wealth is just another form of power, and power is what we use to protect our people,” Graves said with a shrug. “We’ve always been practical about it.”

“Right,” Credence agreed, clearly humoring him. “Practical.”

Credence, Graves suspected, was going to have a very quietly sarcastic sense of humor, once he was more settled in his own skin.

He couldn’t wait to see it.

“Breakfast?” Credence suggested, when Graves’ stomach rumbled. “Miss Goldstein brought pastries.”

“Miss Goldstein,” repeated Graves.

“She’s very nice,” Credence assured him.

 _Nice_ was not a word Graves would have used to describe Goldstein. Aurors – excepting Collins – weren’t _nice_ as a general rule. They couldn’t afford to be. Goldstein was headstrong, tenacious as hell and possessed a crusader’s heart that would doubtless land her in more hot water sooner or later. Probably sooner, knowing Goldstein.

“She’s very determined,” Dindrane said, which was a much better way to describe Goldstein. “And I think she’s playing chicken with Seraphina. She keeps bringing the most fantastic pastries to the hospital. They’re delicious, but … odd.”

“Oh, fucking hell,” said Graves, covering his face with one hand. “Is she really?”

Damnit, Goldstein, he thought. Couldn’t you have at least waited for me to get out of the hospital before you went looking for trouble?

“President Picquery says she’s incorrigible,” Credence said, by way of confirmation. “And also that she’s going to be really glad when you get back to work and Miss Goldstein is your problem.”

Graves blinked. Goldstein wasn’t just playing chicken with Seraphina – she was _winning._ He grinned. If Goldstein could manage that all on her own, what could she do with a little bit more training and his influence to shelter her?

Fuck, she was going to be a magnificent Auror. She might even make head of MLE once he retired.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s try some pastries. Does the Bluebird know you’re having pastries for breakfast? I’d have thought she’d want you to have something nutritious.”

“The Bluebird doesn’t mind as long as we share,” Credence explained with a grin. “The pastries really are that good.” 

Graves tried to follow Credence out of his hospital room into the hall and ran straight into the Bluebird’s wards.

“Oh, fucking hell, you have _got_ to be kidding me,” Graves said, exasperated. He pulled his magic to him with every intention of breaking the wards when Credence stepped back into his hospital room and poked him in the chest.

“Don’t you _dare,_ Percival,” he said fiercely. “You don’t need to break the wards. The Bluebird will take them down for you.”

It was on the tip of Graves’ tongue to point out that he didn’t feel like waiting, but Credence looked tense and unhappy and upset. Graves remembered, abruptly, that the only reason he was here was because he’d let go of his magic breaking Grindelwald’s wards. He’d probably scared the shit out of Credence.

“Right,” he said.

He wasn’t a prisoner anymore. He was the fucking head of MLE and Director of Magical Security. He needed to start acting like it.

Warding the rooms of injured Aurors was standard protocol at St. Brigid’s – mostly because injured Aurors tended to turn into criminal mastermind level escape artists in order to throw themselves back into the fray. It was meant to keep them from hurting themselves.

He’d known that, once. He’d helped the Bluebird enforce that protocol more times than he could count over the years, because his people didn’t have to agree with the Healers’ diagnoses, but he’d be damned if he permitted them to treat the Healers with anything but professional courtesy and respect.

Fuck. What else had he forgotten, while Grindelwald stole his face?

“Right,” he said. “I suppose I’d better wait here for breakfast, then.”

Credence huffed a wolf-laugh. “I’ll just fetch the box,” he said.

Graves quirked an eyebrow at Dindrane, silently indicating that she should go with Credence. He didn’t want to leave Credence alone and unprotected.

Credence noticed and huffed a slightly louder wolf-laugh. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “My room is just down the hallway. And you two should talk.”

“We can talk later,” Graves said, itching to follow Credence out the door.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Credence assured him.

Graves watched him go.

Dindrane watched Credence too. “Someone hurt him,” she said. “Didn’t they?”

“His adopted mother,” Graves said with a growl. “She beat him. She hurt him other ways, too. She told him he was sinful and stupid and ugly. That fuss he made about the jewels – he doesn’t think he’s worth spending money on.” He shook his head. “I thought I’d convinced him otherwise, but apparently I was mistaken.”

“He’s had a stressful week,” his sister pointed out. “A bit of backsliding is normal, all things considered.”

“He deserves better,” said Graves.

“Then give him better,” Dindrane said.

Graves gave her a flat, unimpressed look. If it were that easy, he’d have done it already. 

Dindrane laughed at him. “Just be yourself, brother. And try actually _talking_ to him, rather than going overboard trying to court him.”

“I don’t go overboard when I’m trying to court people,” Graves protested, because he really wasn’t _that_ romantically inept. 

“You go overboard whenever you’re dealing with someone who matters,” Dindrane pointed out, with ruthless honesty. “You can’t bring yourself to say you’re sorry, so you shower people with gifts until they forgive you out of pure self-defense. Credence matters to you. You’re going to want to go overboard, and I’m telling you right now: don’t. He won’t thank you for it.”

Graves made a face. He hated it when Dindrane was right.

Dindrane reached out and ruffled his hair, as if he were barely older than Lance and not a wizard in his prime. “Be yourself,” she said again.

“I have no idea why you think that’s helpful advice,” Graves said, cranky and a little bit plaintive. He would have said more, but Credence came back with a box filled with delicious smelling pastries shaped like a number of magical beasts that Graves hadn’t thought of since Ilvermorny. 

“Try this one,” Credence said, holding out what Graves thought might be a pastry Niffler. “It’s really good.”

Graves let Credence feed him bits of sweet pastry and nutty filling. “There’s a story here, isn’t there,” he said.

Credence shrugged. “Maybe?” he said. “Miss Goldstein wouldn’t say. Neither would President Picquery.”

Graves added that to the list of things he needed to be debriefed on. No one had told him anything – mostly because they couldn’t – but he’d managed to put together an alarmingly long list of things he needed to be debriefed on anyway. 

“What do you suppose the odds are that the Bluebird will let me have coffee?” Graves wondered.

“Nonexistent,” said the Bluebird, folding her arms across her chest and glowering at Graves from the doorway. She gave Graves’ an unimpressed once over, lingering on his sex-mussed hair. “Really, Graves?”

Graves shrugged, unrepentant. “It’s nothing you haven’t caught your residents doing,” he pointed out. “At least I used a locking spell on the door.”

“True,” the Bluebird conceded, removing the wards on Graves’ room with a flick of her wand.

Credence abruptly realized what Graves and the Bluebird were discussing and went an alarming shade of red. “I am so, so sorry Healer Bluebird,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

The Bluebird gave him an indulgent smile. “I suspect _you_ weren’t to blame at all,” she said.

“I still participated,” Credence said, and promptly looked like he wished he’d never said anything at all.

“Pastry?” Graves asked, drawing attention away from Credence.

The Bluebird took a pastry serpent – Graves wasn’t sure if it was a basilisk or an occamy; he was fairly certain it wasn’t a horned serpent – and bit into it with clear delight. “Magic bless Tina Goldstein.”

Graves made a mental note to find out where Goldstein was getting those pastries. They looked like an effective bribe, at least where the Bluebird was concerned.

“How long until I can go home again?” he asked. The Bluebird had taken the wards down, which meant that MACUSA had tentatively decided he wasn’t a flight risk. The Bluebird would be the one to determine when he and Credence could both go home, though.

“I can’t say,” the Bluebird said. “Not _won’t,”_ she clarified a second later. _“Can’t._ Your home is an active crime scene, Graves.”

Graves huffed. “Fine. How long until I can be released?”

“I could, technically, release you today,” the Bluebird said. 

Graves gave her a flat, unimpressed look. People could _technically_ do a lot of things, but in his general experience technicalities were the sort of thing people used to weasel out of a rightly earned conviction. Technicalities were the province of lawyers, sophists and con artists. He didn’t like them.

The Bluebird rolled her eyes and relented. “Madam President asked me to keep you here until you could both be moved to a safe house.”

“Oh, _did she,”_ Graves said, already plotting revenge. He didn’t need or want to be moved to a safe house. He wanted someone to debrief him on everything he’d missed over the last five and a half months and then he wanted to get back to work, because Grindelwald’s empire wasn’t going to dismantle itself.

“Yes,” the Bluebird said pointedly. “I believe she thought it was in _all_ of your best interests.”

Well, shit, Graves thought, because Seraphina was right. He had more than just his own safety to think of now.

“You’ll both stay with me,” Dindrane said firmly. “The kids will want to see you. And I suspect Robert is going to adore Credence; he loves anyone who thinks potions are as wonderful as he does,” she told Credence.

“Over my cold, dead, extremely hostile body,” Graves said instantly.

 _“Percival,”_ Dindrane said, through gritted teeth.

 _“Dindrane,”_ Graves retorted, matching her tone. “I refuse to be the reason Grindelwald’s fanatics go after you. I am _done_ letting Grindelwald hurt my family. The best thing I can do for you now is keep my distance, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

“Damnit, Percival, I can look after myself!” 

_“You_ can,” Graves agreed. “But Robert’s not the duelist you are, and Lance is _eight._ Grindelwald’s fanatics barely see people as _people._ Do you really think they’re going to hesitate when it comes to hurting a child? _Your_ child? They won’t.”

Dindrane snarled something under her breath. 

Credence reached out and patted her hand. “We can visit, once Mr. Grindelwald has been dealt with,” he offered. “I’d like to meet Robert. Percival said he could teach me about potions, since I’d only be learning swear words and how to make things explode if he tried to teach me. Do you think Robert would mind?”

“He’d be delighted,” Dindrane assured him. She sighed. “I hate it when you’re right,” she grumbled. “You’re family. We look after our own.”

“I know,” Graves told her. “That’s what I’m doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Deirfiúr_ is, according to google translate, the Irish word for sister. The extent of my linguistic abilities is English, Sarcasm, and how to imply someone has had unfortunate relations with their mother in enough languages to start bar fights in at least four countries, assuming they can stop laughing at how terrible my accent is to be insulted.
> 
> TL;DR, if anyone has a better translation, please take pity on me and let me know what it is.
> 
> **UPDATE**
> 
> Many thanks to the amazing IrishAnon for the correction on Irish grammar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains further feels of the ouchy variety regarding what happened to Modesty. If that's likely to upset you in a bad way, you may want to skip the last segment of the chapter after Seraphina's visit. (Sorry, guys.)

The Bluebird moved them both into a different private room, since Percival’s no longer had a doorknob, and used magic to turn the two hospital beds into a single larger one. 

“Do you want me to ward it?” she asked.

Percival considered that. “Are you going to make an exception for me this time?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “But yes, of course. You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then I’d appreciate that, if you wouldn’t mind,” Percival said.

The Bluebird drew her wand and did … something. Credence could feel it, a faint brush of wind that subsided into nothing. She tucked her wand in the pocket of her skirt and gave Percival a stern look. “Behave,” she told him, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

“I hate it when you do that,” Percival complained, trying to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order. It stuck out in all directions despite his best efforts. “I am thirty-nine, Aelinor. That’s far too old for you to be treating me like I’m your idiot kid brother.”

“Is it?” the Bluebird inquired. “Is it _really?”_

“Don’t you have other patients to see?”

The Bluebird laughed. “A few,” she said. She pulled Credence into a hug.

Credence wasn’t sure doctors were supposed to hug their patients, but hugs were nice. He wrapped his arms around the Bluebird and pressed his face against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her perfume, all floral and clean. 

“There are potions that will help lower the libido, if you get tired of how randy he is,” the Bluebird told him, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she let him go. “I’d be happy to prescribe them.”

“Um,” said Credence, blushing so hard it felt like sunburn. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Alright,” the Bluebird said agreeably. “Just remember that they’re an option.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Credence said, blushing a little bit harder. 

The Bluebird laughed as she walked out the door. Percival closed it behind her with a mildly irritated scowl. 

“Is _everyone_ in the wizarding world so … so forthright about …” Credence gestured to his belly, and then to Percival and himself.

Percival’s irritated look faded into amusement. “I had your cock in my mouth an hour ago, Credence. It’s okay to use the word sex.”

Credence huffed. “Is everyone in the wizarding world so forthright about fucking?” Credence amended, because Percival’s amusement was all very well and good, but it was _his_ fault that everyone else knew that he and Credence were having relations _in the hospital._ The situation warranted the swear word. _And_ it had the gratifying effect of making Percival choke on his own spit. Credence folded his arms across his chest and tried to look disapproving rather than smug.

“Argh,” said Percival. “To answer your question: no. Not everyone in the wizarding world is as forthright about sex as my sister and the Bluebird. Collins certainly isn’t; he might actually die of embarrassment if he heard any details about someone else’s sex life, much less mine. Most of the junior Aurors share Collins’ worldview that their superior officers are ancient, sexless creatures. But Dindrane has always been incorrigible –”

“It seems to run in your family,” Credence interjected.

“– And the Bluebird has been a Healer – _the_ Healer – for over three decades now. Nothing the human body can do impresses or surprises her. She’s seen it all.”

“Oh,” Credence said, relieved that not everyone was quite so blunt. If people like Mr. Collins weren’t comfortable discussing sex, no one would expect _him_ to talk about it, either. That sort of thing ought to be kept private, he thought.

Percival smiled at him, then turned his attention to the door he’d just shut. He pressed one hand against it, and Credence felt his magic rise up like a storm. 

“What are you –” he began, and stopped, because he felt Percival’s magic _pulse,_ rippling in the air around him. The storm was gone, but Percival’s magic remained, forming a wall that stretched from the floor to the ceiling in every part of their room. “What did you _do?”_ Credence demanded.

“I warded the room,” Percival told him. “So no one can get in if I haven’t set an exception for them.”

“I thought the Bluebird warded our room,” Credence said, opening the door and sticking his hand out. He was relieved when it passed through both layers of magic just fine. He’d had his fill of magical prisons. He didn’t know what he’d do if Percival tried to put him in one, but he suspected it would start with a lot of yelling and escalate from there.

“She warded the door. I warded the door and the windows and everything else. I’m not taking any chances with your safety _or_ his,” Percival said firmly. “Two layers of wards, cast by different people, is generally better than one. It’s better if the second person doesn’t live or work on the premises; that way there’s someone on the outside who can call for help, if both layers of the wards are broken.”

“That seems .... reasonable,” Credence said, fairly certain that reasonable was not the word he wanted at all. But every other word he could think of seemed less kind, so he would stick with reasonable.

Percival was a warrior, he reminded himself. Being overprotective was in Percival’s nature.

This seemed a little excessive, though. They were safe, weren’t they? Mr. Grindelwald was in prison. Mr. Collins had said so.

Credence resolved to let it go for now, since it seemed to make Percival feel better. 

Percival shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were sleeping anywhere unfamiliar,” he said. “It got to be a habit, during the war. It was useful, so I never really bothered to break it.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He understood that, a little. He’d never slept anywhere he felt safe until he’d met Percival. If he’d known, growing up, that he had magic – that he could use magic to keep Ma out of his room or Modesty’s or Chastity’s – Credence would have warded their rooms every night of their lives and welcomed the eternal damnation he’d always been taught would follow. “Are you done?”

Percival hesitated. “For now,” he said. 

“Good,” Credence said, closing the distance between them and pulling Percival into a hug. He breathed in the familiar spice and wild scent of Percival, relaxing into the familiar strength of Percival’s arms. “You should say hello to the baby, before you exhaust yourself setting wards.”

“Hello, little one,” Percival said to the baby, before he scooped Credence up in his arms and deposited him on the bed. 

“Percival!” Credence yelped. “Your injuries –”

“Are healed,” Percival said. “Or, mostly, at any rate.” He crawled on the bed next to Credence, catching one of Credence’s hands in his own and pressing the other against Credence’s belly. He pressed a kiss to Credence’s knuckles at the same time he reached out with his magic to say hello. 

Credence gasped at the dual sensations, the familiar and comforting suddenly made electric. Erotic, even, in a way that made him ache for more of Percival’s touch.

“No,” he said firmly, pulling his hand out of Percival’s. “You are not _seducing_ me while you use your magic to sustain our son.”

“Um,” said Percival, looking equal parts guilty and surprised. 

“You could have _told_ me that’s what you were doing,” Credence added. “I would have understood, if you’d explained it to me.”

The surprise faded, leaving only the guilt behind. “Ah,” said Percival, reaching out to cup Credence’s cheek in the hand not pressed to his belly. “I’m sorry, love. I should have explained a lot of things.”

Credence turned his head so he could press a kiss to Percival’s outstretched palm. “I’m not going to break,” he reminded Percival. He suspected this wasn’t going to be the last time he needed to remind Percival of that. “You can lean on me, too.”

Percival laughed and pulled Credence into a hug, his magic humming between them. “I know _that,”_ he said. “You’re the strongest person I know, aside from my sister.”

Credence smiled, pleased. He knew how highly Percival thought of Dindrane. Having finally met her, it was easy to see why. Dindrane’s strength wasn’t as obvious as Percival’s. She didn’t fight the same way that her brother did; she’d found her own way to keep her people safe and was arguably stronger for it.

There were a lot of different ways to be strong. Credence wanted to find his own: to stand as Percival’s consort, capable of sheltering Percival’s people when Percival himself could not.

Percival pressed a kiss to Credence’s temples. He started working his way down towards Credence’s mouth, pausing to nibble on Credence’s right ear.

“Augh,” Credence said, flailing. “Stop it.”

Percival froze. Then he pulled back, dark eyes searching Credence’s face for signs of distress. “Did I do something you don’t like?” he asked carefully.

“No, it’s just –” Credence squirmed, because he really _did_ want Percival to make love to him. “I like the way your magic feels, and I like sex, but I don’t want to think of sex every time I feel your magic.” He’d never get anything _done,_ if he thought about sex every time he felt Percival’s magic. Neither would Percival.

“Oh,” said Percival. He managed to keep a straight face, but his eyes were laughing.

Credence narrowed his eyes. He groped behind himself for one of the hospital pillows and shoved it into Percival’s face.

Percival rolled onto his back and dragged Credence with him, his laughter clearly audible through the pillow.

Credence lifted the pillow away. “Being smug is not attractive,” he said sternly, ignoring the fact that he found Percival’s smug expression unfairly attractive. He was sprawled mostly on top of Percival, which made him think about what he could do with Percival in this position, now that the warm familiar feel of Percival’s magic had vanished.

“Sorry,” Percival said, clearly not sorry at all. “Forgive me?” 

“I think you could earn my forgiveness,” Credence told him. “If you wanted to.”

“I do believe that you should work for the things you want,” Percival told him, a flicker of heat in his eyes. He leaned up to kiss Credence, breathless and devouring.

Credence felt an answering flicker of heat and kissed Percival back, pulling away to nip at Percival’s bottom lip. Percival growled at him, a low sound of predatory _want._

“My lovely darling,” he said, punctuating the words with a trail of love bites down the side of Credence’s neck. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Credence reached down between them to press his hand against the hard bulge of Percival’s cock. “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” he said dryly.

“Fucking hell,” Percival swore. “Warn a man before you say things like that, lovely.” 

“No,” Credence said, sneaking his hand into Percival’s hospital pants. “I don’t think I will.”

“Merlin and Morgana,” hissed Percival. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Technically,” Credence said. “You.”

“I have been a very bad influence on you,” Percival said, shoving Credence’s hospital pants down so he could fist Credence’s cock and even the score.

“I like you anyways,” Credence said, arching up into Percival’s touch. “Besides, you said you’d do whatever I wanted, once I had the energy for it.” He didn’t think he was going to last long, not with Percival stroking his cock, his grip slick and calloused and _perfect._

“I did say that,” Percival agreed, moving his wrist a little faster.

“Oh,” Credence said, his own grip on Percival’s cock faltering. “Like that, just like that, Percival, _please.”_

“Anything,” Percival promised. “Everything. Just say the word.”

“Don’t stop,” Credence said, bracing himself on Percival’s shoulders and giving in to pure sensation. 

“Never,” said Percival, dragging him down for a kiss that made him burn from the inside out. 

Credence gasped into Percival’s mouth, hips jerking wildly as he came.

“Don’t stop,” he commanded, breathless and shivering in the aftershocks.

“Yes, dear,” Percival said, a wry curl to his mouth. He shifted so he could press Credence back against their bed, shoving one of the pillows beneath Credence’s hips and dragging his hospital pants off. 

Credence moaned at the familiar feel of the spell that made him slick inside. He’d missed this, being spread out beneath Percival like a feast for the taking. He’d missed the way Percival twisted his fingers inside and pressed hungry kisses against his mouth at the same time.

“My Credence,” said Percival. “Kind and lovely and _mine.”_ He spread his fingers apart, making room for his cock. “Merlin, you’re so fucking gorgeous. You’re going to be _devastating_ once Tómas gets you kitted out properly. I’m going to be the envy of everyone in the room at the next MACUSA function, because I’ll have you on my arm. You’re going to start _riots.”_

“I will not,” Credence protested. Or he tried to, at any rate. The words got lost around a moan as Percival pushed into him, thick and hot and perfect.

“Yes, you will,” Percival said, drawing back and pushing in again. He lapsed into momentary silence, obviously concentrating on driving Credence out of his mind. 

Credence clutched at his back and rocked back to meet his thrusts, savoring the fullness of Percival inside him. It was almost like being under the influence of liquid starlight, because all he wanted was _more._ More sex, more Percival, more children and more of Percival’s world. He was greedy with want and regretted none of it.

“Percival, please,” he begged. “More.”

“More?” Percival asked. “More what?”

“More everything,” Credence gasped.

Percival grinned. “As you wish.” He changed the angle of his thrusts so that every stroke in rubbed over the spot inside that made everything go electric and good. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? The way you look, carrying our son, still willing to let me have more of you. You’re so fucking beautiful, Credence. I can’t believe that you’re mine.”

“Flatterer,” Credence said. It took him two tries to form the word, all his higher brain functions absolutely destroyed by how good he felt. 

“Truth,” Percival said, pressing an admonishing nip to Credence’s bottom lip. He wrapped his hand around Credence’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. 

It was too much and simultaneously exactly right, exactly what he wanted. Credence let the pleasure rise up and drag him under like a wave, spilling into Percival’s palm and shivering through the aftershocks. 

“Mine,” said Percival, managing a half dozen more thrusts before he came, spilling into Credence with a possessive growl. 

“Mine,” Credence agreed. “My Percival. Strong and righteous and _mine.”_ He couldn’t help his whine of protest as Percival pulled out, getting both of them clean with another flicker of magic. 

“Righteous?” Percival asked, locating their clothing and shimmying back into his hospital pants.

Credence huffed a laugh. “You’re very righteous,” he pointed out.

“I am a reasonable amount of righteous,” Percival corrected, helping Credence back into his own hospital pants. 

“You’re really not,” Credence said, shoving the blankets and sheets down and pulling Percival into bed with him. “I like righteous, though.”

“Oh,” said Percival, pressing a kiss to Credence’s temples. “Alright then.”

 

*

 

Seraphina arrived just after breakfast the next morning, dressed from her headscarf to her boots in a shade of navy blue so dark it looked almost black. The only exception was her blouse, which was the same shade of amethyst as the hilt of her wand. It was a deceptively feminine outfit, designed to look sober and professional and nothing at all like the fashion plates Seraphina tended to wear when she wanted to awe foreign dignitaries with the full majesty of Madam President Picquery. 

This particular outfit wouldn’t awe anyone. Graves rather thought that was the point.

Graves sipped his coffee. “You should take Hughes with you, if you’re going hunting.” 

“Good morning to you to,” Seraphina retorted. “Good morning, Credence.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Credence said, looking slightly embarrassed. He slunk out of his chair and said, “I’ll just go get dressed now.” He headed for the water closet attached to their room, snatching up a fresh pile of clothes as he went.

“You don’t need to bother,” Graves said. “It’s only Seraphina.”

“Only!” Credence repeated, looking horrified. “She’s the _president,_ Percival. I can’t meet with the _president_ in my pajamas!” He shut the door to the water closet behind him firmly.

“Of course you can,” Graves called after him. “I’m going to.”

“Pajamas would be an improvement, at this point,” Seraphina said dryly. “You could at least put a shirt on.”

“Why, does the sight of my bare, manly chest disturb you?” Graves inquired, just to be an asshole. It was the same question he always asked her whenever Seraphina complained about finding him in a state of undress. 

“Yes,” Seraphina said, deviating from their usual script. “You’ve got four new scars and I can count all your ribs.”

“I –” Graves started, half-expecting her usual reply, which was, _I may swoon_ in Seraphina’s flattest, most deadpan tone. “Right. I’ll just go get a shirt.” 

“Percival,” Seraphina began, very gently.

It pissed him off. Graves didn’t need or want Seraphina to treat him with kid gloves. He stomped over to the bed, where his own set of clean everyday clothes had appeared just after dawn. They weren’t _his_ clothes, but they were clean.

“It’s fine, Seraphina,” he said sharply, yanking a clean shirt on in rough, jerky movements. He stripped off his hospital pants in favor of clean trousers, ignoring Seraphina’s irritated squawk when she got an eyeful of his bare ass.

“Really, Percival?” she demanded, facing the door with her arms folded across her chest.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Graves pointed out.

“Um,” said Credence, standing just outside the water closet and looking equal parts embarrassed and nauseated. 

“Oh, shit,” Graves said. Credence’s morning sickness must have been acting up. “Do you need some of Bessie’s Baby Balm?”

“No,” Credence said. He swallowed hard and added, “But I think I’d like you to explain why President Picquery has seen your bare backside.”

He looked upset about that, for some reason. Graves couldn’t figure out why, and then it hit him: Credence thought that he and Seraphina had been lovers. 

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Graves blurted, closing the distance between them. “It’s not what you think. I’ve never – _we’ve_ never – _No._ Just – no. It would be like sleeping with my sister.”

“Ugh,” said Seraphina, accurately interpreting his babbling. “Let me assure you, Credence, I wouldn’t sleep with Percival if he were the last wizard in the world. Our relationship has always been more familial.” One corner of her mouth quirked up in a small smile. “We swore a blood oath on that, once.”

“Wizards do that too?” Credence asked, relaxing a little. “They don’t mean anything. Little kids do that all the time.”

“They mean something if you’re a wizard,” Seraphina said, amused. “And if it helps, the only reason I’ve seen Percival’s bare backside is because it’s tradition for the seventh years to prank one another on Mischief Night.” She paused, reflecting on that. “I’m not admitting to anything, but there may have been alcohol involved, and things _may_ have escalated a bit past pranks.”

“I like how you say that like _you_ weren’t the one escalating things,” Graves murmured.

“I will admit to no such thing,” Seraphina said primly. “At any rate, your fiancé wound up wearing nothing but blue paint and running through the woods of Mount Greylock.”

“To be fair,” Graves said, “I wasn’t the _only_ one running around naked. Half of the seventh years in Wampus and almost _all_ of Thunderbird went with me. Seraphina dared us to jump off the waterfall, you see,” he explained. “Which was strictly forbidden by the professors, so of course everyone wanted to do it.” He frowned. “I’m not sure why we were wearing blue paint, though.”

“You don’t remember?” Seraphina asked. “It was your idea. You said, _alright lads,”_ she said, deepening her voice and using what Graves assumed was meant to be an Irish accent, except for the part where it was terrible. “And Eva Sanchez said, _and ladies,_ at which point you noticed that she was _also_ naked and tripped over a rock.”

“I was seventeen!” Graves said. “And Eva had a very nice backside. Not as nice as yours,” he assured Credence, “and one that I was definitely not allowed to touch. Her girlfriend would have skinned me, assuming Eva had left anything of me to skin.”

“Right,” Credence said, looking bemused.

“Once he’d picked himself off the ground, Percival said, _alright lads and lasses, we’re going to do this right, for the glory of Sayre and Steward and the Old Country. Put on your war paint and let’s give the bastards hell!”_

“I did not,” Graves said, completely horrified. He was aware of the fact that he tended to slip into his mother’s lilting accent whenever he was exhausted, drunk or feeling emotionally vulnerable. He remembered bits and pieces of that Mischief Night; none of his memories included the fact that he’d used his Irish-born mother’s accent to commit _blasphemy._

“You really did,” said Seraphina.

“That’s not even historically accurate!” Graves groaned. “All that nonsense about the Celts wearing blue paint into battle was made up by the Romans!”

“If he’d been anyone else, I’d have said it was just a line to give a group of young, drunk, naked idiots to play a bit of slap and tickle under the guise of smearing paint all over one another, but Percival has always had too much command potential for his own good, so all the silly little fools did was slap on some proverbial war paint and follow him screaming into the woods and over the waterfall,” Seraphina concluded.

“I thought Ilvermorny was a respectable school for wizards,” Credence said reproachfully. “That does not sound respectable.”

“It is,” Graves protested. “But seventeen year old’s will always be stupid.”

“I wasn’t,” Seraphina said, smug.

Graves coughed. “Ariadne.” He cleared his throat when Seraphina glared at him. “Sorry,” he said. “My throat was dry. I should have some more coffee,” he added, escorting Credence to the breakfast table with a protective hand pressed against the small of Credence’s back.

Credence sighed and sat down in the chair Graves pulled out for him, one hand resting on the swell of his stomach. “I hope you make better choices than your father,” he told the baby.

Graves dragged him into a hug, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I’m sure he will. He’s got you to set a good example for him.” He let Credence go and turned back to Seraphina. “Why are you here, Seraphina?”

Seraphina twisted her wrist, letting a miniaturized stack of files fall out of where she’d hidden it in her sleeve and into her hand. “I simply came to check in,” she told him, setting the files down on the bed. “And to remind you that I cannot update you on anything connected to Grindelwald, because the information is, as you know, classified.”

“Ah,” said Graves, eyeing the stack. It was supposed to be impossible to copy anything marked with MACUSA’s sigil. Any attempt to copy a classified file generally resulted in the whole thing being redacted, explosively and immediately, with ink that would stain anyone dumb enough to try. Seraphina had always been exceptional, though. 

One of those files, he knew, would contain information on the death of Modesty Barebone. How was he supposed to break the news to Credence? “Thank you, Seraphina.”

Seraphina nodded briskly and straightened her jacket. “I need to get back to work. It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Credence,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Credence said, clearly responding on reflex. “It was a pleasure to see you as well.”

She grinned at him, a little crookedly – the way the girl Graves had known at Ilvermorny smiled, rather than the way Madam President did. “It’s Seraphina, for anyone who matters to Percival.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Credence said again. “Seraphina,” he corrected himself, blushing.

“He’s way too good for you,” Seraphina said to Graves.

“I know,” Graves said easily. He walked Seraphina to the door, catching her wrist before she could open it. “Take Hughes with you,” he repeated. “Has a delegation arrived yet?”

“They’re still squabbling over who gets to send one,” Seraphina sighed. “It won’t be long, though.” 

She’d used something – probably Madam Butterfly’s Brighten Up – to erase the dark circles under her eyes and make her skin glow like she’d gotten a full night’s sleep. Graves knew her well enough to realize how tired she probably was. He wondered what this little visit had cost her.

He released her hand, turning his own palm up: an offer of power given. He hadn’t shared magic with anyone but Credence since the war, but the offer was instinctive now.

“Please,” he said. “Let me do this much for you, at least.”

“You’ve done too much for me already,” Seraphina demurred, hesitating. 

“Please, Seraphina,” he said again. He might have been physically weak, but there was nothing wrong with his magic. If anything, Graves felt stronger than he had before. Too much time casting wandless, wordless spells behind magic suppressing wards, he supposed.

Seraphina closed her fingers around his, drawing his magic into her own.

“Percival Graves, at your service,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. 

Seraphina laughed and pulled her hand away. “I don’t need some silly little boy from Wampus to fight my battles for me,” she told him. It was what she’d told him the day that they’d met, although at least this time she wasn’t also shaking out her stinging knuckles after punching him in the nose.

“Of course not,” Graves agreed, echoing that long ago conversation. “But I’m yours to call on all the same. As are my team.”

Seraphina raised her eyebrows at him. “What makes you think Hughes is the one I should take with me? Why not Deputy Director McRory, or Senior Auror Summersea? Why not one of the other Senior Investigating Aurors?”

“Because you want them to underestimate you,” Graves said, gesturing to her outfit. “Which means that whoever’s pushing for a delegation doesn’t know you, and you don’t know them, because anyone you know would know better than to fall for it. You’ll need back-up, once the delegation arrives.”

“And Hughes is the best duelist MACUSA has,” Seraphina murmured, looking thoughtful. Her expression smoothed back into a neutral mask.

Graves smirked. “That’s not why I want you to take Hughes.”

“Oh? Why do you want me to take Hughes, if not for that?” Seraphina asked.

“So Win can flush them out,” Graves said. “Put Hughes in a dress. Get her in front of the delegation. And then let Hughes be Hughes.”

“You want me to let Hughes cuss out a foreign delegation?” 

“Hughes has got good instincts,” Graves said. “Let her push the ones that need pushing.” He let his smile go predatory. “And if you’re lucky, the stupid ones will be so distracted by _her_ that they’ll never see you coming. The _very_ stupid ones will look at your inability to control her and think it makes you weak.”

Seraphina’s smile was small and secretive. “Hughes is one of yours,” she said. “What makes you think she’ll go along with this?”

“We’ve run this play before,” Graves said. “Just tell her I said _leather and lace.”_

Seraphina’s eyebrows went up again.

“Win named it that, not me,” Graves sighed. “Possibly just to see if I’d blush.”

“Alright, then,” Seraphina murmured. “Anything else?”

“Thanks for stopping in just to check on us,” Graves said, pitching his voice a little louder. “It was very kind of you, Madam President.”

“Of course, Director Graves,” Seraphina said, and opened the door.

Credence waited until it had closed behind her again to say anything. “What was that all about?” he asked.

Graves made a face. “Politics.”

Credence sighed. “I thought maybe you’d be able to take a break from fighting, once we were free. But you can’t, can you?”

Graves shook his head. “Not while there’s work to be done. MACUSA might have Grindelwald in custody, but he’s spent the last five and a half months getting a toehold in _my_ country. Among _my_ people – _our_ people, Credence. And that’s not counting the empire he built in Europe. He needs to be stopped.”

“I think,” Credence said carefully, taking hold of Graves’ hand. “That maybe you ought to heal up a little, before you start trying to stop Mr. Grindelwald personally. The Bluebird won’t be pleased if you wind up back in a hospital bed. I won’t be, either,” he added tartly.

“Right,” said Graves. He sat down again and looked over at the miniaturized files, casting a wordless _finite incantatem_ to restore them to their proper size.

He sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for. There were no pictures of the Obscurial, which he was grateful for. Only of the Barebone woman and the older girl; the one Credence had described as ‘very devoted to the cause,’ which Graves had translated as ‘zealot.’ Only the debris drifting in the background showed that he was looking at wizarding photos at all; the bodies lay silent and still, dark veins marring their faces.

There was very little information on the death of Modesty Barebone. She was referenced as the Obscurial throughout the report; her name was typed into the box identifying the individual responsible for the deaths of three No-Maj’s and nowhere else. Graves checked the citation; the first No-Maj had been killed earlier, and was described in a separate report.

It seemed a sad sort of eulogy, he thought. Credence loved the girl. She deserved better.

“Credence,” he began, and stopped, the words thick in his mouth. “There’s something I need to tell you about your sister – about Modesty.”

 

*

 

“There’s something I need to tell you about your sister,” Percival said, looking like the words were ashes in his mouth. “About Modesty.”

Credence could pinpoint the moment he realized that Modesty was dead. It was somewhere in the breath between _your sister_ and _about Modesty,_ when Percival reached for him with nothing but pity in his warm brown eyes.

Percival had never looked at him with pity before.

“No,” Credence said. Maybe he screamed it; he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember. He was sitting, so there was no way for his legs to go out from underneath him but he was on the ground anyway, sobbing helplessly into Percival’s shoulder. “No, no, no! Tell me it isn’t true,” he begged, the way he’d never begged for anything. Begging did no good, in Credence’s experience. It didn’t stop Ma from beating him or from hitting either of the girls. It didn’t stop Mr. Grindelwald from hurting Percival. It did _nothing,_ just like it did nothing now.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m so, so sorry,” Percival whispered, rocking him back and forth. 

“No,” Credence said again, clawing at Percival’s shirt. _“No._ She can’t be dead, Percival, she _can’t_ be. She’s just a little girl.”

“I know,” Percival said. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t say anything else. He just let Credence cry himself out, and used magic to tuck Credence back into their hospital bed.

Credence turned his face into the pillow, too hollowed out by grief and exhausted to sleep. “What happened?” he asked dully.

“Credence,” Percival began.

“I want,” Credence said, enunciating very clearly. “To know what happened to my sister.” Percival would want to know what happened to Dindrane, if he’d been in Credence’s place.

“You were right,” Percival said. “She had magic.”

“You said her magic would protect her,” Credence said, not even bothering to try to keep the accusation out of his voice. Magic _should_ have protected Modesty. What good was it, if it couldn’t do that?

“Sometimes,” Percival said. “If a magical child feels unsafe, or if they’re frightened of their own magic, their magic goes wrong. It turns inward, and when the child reaches a breaking point, it manifests as something called an obscurus. Children with obscuri rarely live past their tenth birthdays.”

“So this is my fault,” Credence said. “Because I wasn’t there to protect her from Ma.”

_“No,”_ Percival said. “You mustn’t think that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Credence demanded, sitting up in bed. “I was right! I couldn’t protect her because Mr. Grindelwald had us trapped and Ma –” he drew in a ragged breath. “Ma hurt her, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know,” Percival said. “But I suspect she did.”

Credence wished he had tears left to shed. Anything would be better than this – than being so empty he ached with it, with grief opening its mouth like an abyss beneath him, waiting to swallow him whole.

“What happened to your sister is rare, Credence,” Percival continued. “There hasn’t been a case like hers in America in two hundred years.” He hesitated. “I think that’s why Grindelwald came to America. I think he was looking for Modesty.”

_The child is dying,_ Mr. Grindelwald had told him, back when he was pretending to be Mr. Graves. The special child Mr. Grindelwald had wanted him to find – the one he’d wanted to save.

God, he was so _stupid._ How had he not realized it was Modesty? If he’d only just figured it out sooner; if he’d given her to Mr. Grindelwald, maybe she’d still be alive. Mr. Grindelwald wasn’t _nice,_ but Credence didn’t think that Mr. Grindelwald would have hurt Modesty. Not if he’d come all the way from Europe just to find her. If he’d figured it out sooner, maybe Modesty would still be alive. Percival could have freed her the way he’d freed Credence. Percival could have _rescued_ her.

“Why?” Credence asked. “She’s – she was just a little girl. What could Mr. Grindelwald possibly want with her?”

“He wanted to make her his weapon,” Percival said. “When an obscurus develops – when a child’s magical ability turns inward and uncontrollable, it manifests as a powerful destructive force. One much stronger than the child. Grindelwald probably wanted to use that power for his own ends.”

“Would she ….?”

“No,” Percival said gently. “What Grindelwald wanted would have killed her.”

So Modesty would have been dead either way.

“What happened?” Credence asked again.

“The Obscurus broke free. It destroyed the church,” Percival said. “No one in it survived.”

Credence closed his eyes. What was one more blow, on top of the ones he’d already been dealt? At least this was something he had experience with. “Ma and Chastity are dead too,” he said.

“Yes,” said Percival. “I’m sorry, Credence.”

“Don’t be,” Credence said. “I’m not. They weren’t my family. Not like Modesty was.” He’d thought, maybe, if he could get Chastity away from Ma, she’d go back to being his little sister. Deep down, he’d always known it was a stupid thought. Chastity didn’t belong in the magical world. The best thing he could have done for her was get her away from Ma and ask Percival to remove her memories; to let her start fresh somewhere new.

He’d mourned the loss of his middle sister years ago.

“The Obscurus damaged a number of buildings. Grindelwald and MACUSA chased it into the subway, where it died.”

“Where Modesty died, you mean,” Credence snapped.

“Modesty died in the church, with the others,” Percival told him. “The Obscurus wasn’t your sister. It was dark magic, and it needed to be put down.”

Credence couldn’t help but make a low, wounded noise at that. Modesty wasn’t an _animal_ to be put down if it lashed out. She was a person – a _child_ – and she should have been kept safe.

“Why didn’t anyone keep us safe?” he demanded. “I’m magic, and so is – so was Modesty. We’re your people, but no one ever came looking for us. Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Percival said, stroking Credence’s hair away from his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Credence was abruptly sick of his apologies. “I’d like to be left alone now,” he said, the way Percival had when he’d found out about Norton.

“Are you sure?” Percival asked. 

“Leave me alone, Percival!”

“Alright,” Percival said, his hand hovering awkwardly above Credence’s head. He let it fall without touching Credence. “Alright.” He gathered up the files that President Picquery had left him and retreated out of their room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Credence buried himself under the blankets and found that he had a few tears left to shed after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about wand woods is taken from the Harry Potter wiki. Bernadette Mosaku, of the Department of Final Justice, is named for the actress who played Bernadette the executioner in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. (Even if imdb says her name was Beryl. Someone correct me if that's wrong, because it sounded like Tina said her name was Bernadette.)

Graves shut the door behind himself and sat down on the floor next to it, warding it shut against everyone but himself with the strongest spells he knew. If Credence wanted to privacy in order to grieve, then Graves would give it to him.

He heard Credence start to cry again and thumped his head against the wall, swiping his thumb under his own eyes, which were suspiciously wet. Fuck. He hated this. Credence was hurting, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He forced himself to go through the files Seraphina brought him, opening the top one and blinking down at a picture of Theseus’ little brother. Graves closed the file, certain that Seraphina had passed him a file from the British Ministry of Magic by mistake. The replicated file still bore MACUSA’s sigil.

What the hell was Theseus’ little brother doing in New York?

Graves had met the younger Scamander once, during the war, although he couldn’t recall the boy’s name. He opened the file again to verify it. Newton Artemis Fido Scamander. Newt, for short, and not a boy, either. He’d fought in the war, with one of the beast divisions – the Ukrainian Ironbellies, if Graves recalled correctly. Newt wasn’t as broad-shouldered as his brother, but he’d shared Theseus’ ginger hair and tendency to think that fear was something that happened to other people. His slender frame and downcast eyes made him seem younger than he was; Newt had trouble making eye contact with people. Theseus used to worry about that, when he wasn’t singing Newt’s praises for his work with the dragons. Whatever made Theseus so fearless in battle was clearly genetic; Graves pitied whoever had been tasked with keeping Newt from death by dragon.

The picture of Newt dropped his gaze and ducked his head, trying to avoid looking at Graves directly. It reminded Graves of Credence, the way Credence had been when Grindelwald had first brought Credence to his cell. Submissive and scared.

Graves closed the file and dropped it on the stack with the others. He couldn’t deal with this. Not now.

He opened the file again. If Grindelwald had hurt Theseus’ younger brother like he’d hurt Credence’s younger sister, Graves would break out of the hospital and hunt the bastard down himself. 

“Oh, this is so much worse than I imagined,” he groaned, giving the initial report a cursory reading. An enchanted case full of magical beasts, some of which were missing, and a No-Maj dragged into the thick of it. And if that weren’t bad enough, Grindelwald had sentenced Goldstein _and Theseus’ little brother_ to death and no one had thought anything of it. They’d have died, if not for Newt’s quick thinking and the intervention of Goldstein the Younger.

Grindelwald had tried to kill Graves’ people, and he’d used Graves’ own face to do it.

 _“Fuck,”_ he swore.

The first fucking thing he was going to do once he was back at work was overhaul the laws regarding the entire damn Department of Final Judgment. Death was meant to be used on criminals and terrorists like Grindelwald, not their own fucking people. Fucking hell, Goldstein and Mosaku _knew_ one another. Bernadette Mosaku had always been a moral woman; the Department of Final Judgment _needed_ moral people.

What had Grindelwald done, to compromise Mosaku’s belief’s?

How far had Grindelwald’s rot spread inside MACUSA?

Graves was distantly aware of the _click click click_ sound of a woman’s heels on the linoleum flooring. Something about the length of the stride told him that it was safe to relax. Whoever those heels belonged to wouldn’t hurt him.

“Director Graves?” Goldstein the Younger asked, peering down at him. “What are you doing out here?” 

Queenie Goldstein held a familiar pastry box in her hands, and her normally sweet smile had been replaced by an expression of concern.

“Keeping watch,” Graves said, shoving the files behind him.

“Oh,” said Queenie. And then, _“Oh._ Poor thing. What are you doing out here, Mr. Graves? He _needs_ you.”

“He asked for privacy,” Graves said, trying not to sound defensive.

“Oh, honey,” said Queenie, clearly addressing Credence. She put her hands on her hips and glowered down at Graves. “It’s high time you stopped being stupid and started being there for him,” she told him tartly.

Graves’ back and shoulders straightened reflexively. “Get out of my head, Goldstein.” He got to his feet slowly; the Bluebird had worked miracles on his broken bones, but he wasn’t completely healed by a long shot.

Queenie tsked at him. “I’m not in your head, Director. I can’t get past your big fancy wall and you know it, but it doesn’t take a Legilimens to see what’s going on.” She shoved the pastry box into his hands and scooped down to place his files on top of it as she pushed him towards the door. “He doesn’t need privacy: he needs someone to hold him. Now stop being stupid and _go hold him.”_

Graves wasn’t entirely certain how Queenie managed to get the door open, much less propel him through it, but she did. She shut it behind her quickly, before he could turn around and glare at her for her presumptions.

The silent figure underneath the blankets gave no indication that it noticed his presence.

Graves set the files and the pastry box on the breakfast table and crawled into bed, dragging the slightly trembling tangle of blankets into his arms.

He thought maybe he ought to say something, and drew a blank as to what, if anything, that might be. Anything he said now would just sound like a platitude or a lie. There was nothing he could say that would make the magnitude of what Credence had lost any easier to bear.

Graves decided it was worth listening to Goldstein the Younger in the end, and just held on to Credence until Credence finally stopped crying. He rested his forehead against the tangle of blankets and kept watch, ready to hex anyone who walked through their door before Credence was ready to deal with them.

It wasn’t much – it wasn’t _enough_ – but it was all he could think of to do. 

 

*

 

Credence emerged from the blankets close to dinnertime, red-eyed and determined. “I want to make sure what happened to Modesty never happens to anyone else,” he said. “I don’t want any more magical children growing up thinking that they’re freaks, or being afraid of what they can do. It isn’t right, Percival. No one should grow up afraid of what they are.”

“No,” Graves agreed. “They shouldn’t.”

“Magic failed us, me and Modesty both,” Credence said bluntly. “MACUSA failed us. How do we stop it from happening again?”

“First, you get people to admit that it happened,” Graves said, heartened by the sound of that we. “And then you change the world. It’ll take money and influence and a hell of a lot of hard work, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

Credence considered that. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” he said.

“Me neither,” Graves told him. “And you’ve got my name and influence to back you. You can change the world, my love, and I have no doubt that you’ll change it for the better.”

“Will you help me?” Credence asked.

Graves clasped Credence’s scarred right hand in his own, raising it up so he could press a kiss to the back of it. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. You have my word as a Graves on that.”

Credence took a deep breath and released it slowly, squaring his shoulders as he did so. “Alright,” he said. 

Tituba’s bones, Credence was magnificent. His clothes and hair were rumpled from the time he’d spent under the blankets and his eyes were still red, but sitting there, with the strength of his convictions settled around him like armor, he was the most magnificent thing Graves had ever seen.

Graves kissed Credence’s hand again, head bowed in supplication.

“Percival?” Credence asked.

“I love you,” Graves said. “That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Credence repeated, sounding equal parts incredulous and fond. 

“Yes,” said Graves.

Credence laughed at him, a little bit shaky but clearly pleased. “I love you, too,” he said.

 

*

 

Dindrane brought them homemade soup for dinner, using magic to float the container in the air behind her because her arms were weighted down with more shopping bags than Credence had ever seen.

“Huh,” said Credence. _“Wingardium leviosa_ is useful after all.”

“You didn’t think _wingardium leviosa_ was useful before?” Percival asked.

“Not really,” Credence admitted. “I don’t see the point of levitating things when I’m perfectly capable of picking them up on my own.”

Dindrane laughed. “You’re very practical,” she said, tapping Credence on the nose. “It’s refreshing. Would you like some soup?”

Percival eyed the container like he thought it might explode. “Did you make it?” he asked suspiciously.

“Percival!” Credence said, appalled. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not being rude,” Percival protested. “I’m motivated by self-preservation. Dindrane can’t cook.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Credence said, looking apologetically at Dindrane.

“It really is,” said Percival.

“No, it isn’t,” said Dindrane. “I can cook.”

“For a definition of cooking that includes getting distracted by a bit of arithmancy theory halfway through the recipe, leaving out key ingredients and substituting in ones that have no place in whatever dish you’re preparing,” Percival amended. “Then yes, you can cook. Badly.”

Dindrane scowled at him. “I’m not sure you deserve any of this nice soup I brought you.”

She wasn’t serious about that. Credence _knew_ she didn’t really mean it, but the thought of _anyone_ controlling when he and Percival ate like Mr. Grindelwald had bothered him.

“Credence?” asked Percival.

“It’s nothing,” Credence assured him. “I’m just – being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Dindrane said, at the same time Percival asked, “What’s wrong?”

Matching worried brown eyes stared at him expectantly. 

“I don’t … I _know_ you’re only teasing one another, but Mr. Grindelwald controlled what we ate and when and there was never enough and I just … I don’t like the reminder of it,” Credence said, all in a rush.

“Oh,” said Percival, looking a little like someone had hit him.

So did Dindrane. “I’m so sorry,” she said. 

“It’s fine,” Credence assured her. “It’s nothing, really, you didn’t mean anything by it. I was just being stupid, like I said.”

“You had a valid point and there’s nothing wrong with that,” Dindrane said firmly. “You’re not stupid at all.”

“Definitely not stupid,” agreed Percival. 

“Can we have dinner now?” Credence asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Of course,” said Dindrane. “And for your information, brother, Robert made the soup.”

“In that case, I would love to have some soup,” Percival said. “Robert is a fantastic cook,” he told Credence.

“He is,” Dindrane said proudly. “I’m a lucky woman.” 

One of her bags yielded up a collection of china soup bowls, painted with blue knights on horses. Credence watched, delighted, as two knights raced towards each other, lances out, and smashed into one another. One of the knights succeeded in knocking the other off his horse; the fallen knight fell on his back dramatically and waved a flag of defeat.

“This is Lance’s favorite set,” Dindrane said. “He wanted me to use them so you’d feel better soon.” 

“That was nice of him,” Credence said. 

“He’s a good boy,” said Percival.

“He’s a good boy most of the time,” Dindrane corrected. “Some days I can’t wait until his Ilvermorny letter comes, and other times I never want him to get bigger and leave.”

“What is he like?” Credence asked. He wondered if Lance would like him. He _wanted_ Lance to like him.

Dindrane ladled soup into the bowls and produced a photo from her purse. It was a wizarding photo, like the one in the room where Credence had given Mr. Summersea his statement. The people in it _moved._ Dindrane was seated next to a swarthy man who must have been her husband Robert. Their oldest son – Arthur, his name was Arthur – stood just behind his mother, all gawky, coltish limbs and wearing a surprisingly sweet smile. He looked like he’d just had a growth spurt and wasn’t quite used to it yet. Gwen stood just behind her father, wearing a pretty dress that would have made even Chastity sigh with envy. Her smile was pure mischief. Lance stood next to his older brother, fidgeting in his neatly tailored suit. The picture Arthur placed one hand on Lance’s shoulder, trying to stop his fidgeting, and Lance knocked it off and tripped over his own feet into Dindrane’s lap. The entire family burst into laughter before resuming their initial stately pose.

“He’s eight,” Dindrane said. “Right now his favorite color is green, and he only wants to eat green foods, which at least makes getting him to eat his vegetables easy. Robert’s taking to dyeing everything else green. He’s _very_ interested in your baby. I think he likes the idea of being someone else’s bigger cousin, since he’s always been my baby.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He hadn’t quite put it together like that. That his son would have cousins; that _he_ would have nieces and nephews. 

He’d lost and gained a family, all in one day. Credence wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. Did having Percival and Dindrane and Robert and their children make up for Modesty and Chastity and Ma? 

If he thought about that for too long, he was going to start crying again. Credence shoved that thought down and focused on the soup, which was chicken with star-shaped pasta.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about finding babysitters,” Dindrane said, drawing him out of his thoughts. “All three of my kids are looking forward to having a baby cousin to spoil.”

“I’m going to have to learn how to say no to them, aren’t I?” Percival asked. “I’m going to have to set _boundaries.”_

“It’ll be good for you,” his sister said. “Now eat.”

“I don’t want to set boundaries. I’m the fun uncle,” Percival grumbled, tucking into his soup. 

“You are not the fun uncle. Lito is the fun uncle. You’re the scary uncle who protects them from bogeymen.”

“Oh,” said Percival, clearly pleased by this description. “Alright then. I suppose as the scary uncle I can set boundaries.”

“Good,” said Dindrane.

“Also,” Percival said, looking over at the mountain of bags. “How much did you buy?”

“Just enough to make sure you’re comfortable,” Dindrane said tartly. “I had to guess at your sizes, Credence, but you can use whatever’s too big now once you’re farther along.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything new,” Credence said automatically, thinking of the cost. Dindrane must have spent a small fortune, getting new clothes for him and Percival.

“Nonsense,” said Dindrane. “You’re pregnant and you should have clothes that fit comfortably.”

“You might as well give in,” Percival advised. “Dindrane’s stubborn.”

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Dindrane murmured.

Clearly, being stubborn ran in the Graves family. 

“Thank you,” Credence said.

“You’re welcome,” said Dindrane. She passed Percival a set of keys. “I assume you haven’t come to your senses and decided to come home to Boston with me.”

“Definitely not,” said Percival.

Dindrane made a face. “There’s a safe house waiting for you at 111 Park Street. Seraphina and I put it under a Fidelius charm,” she added.

“Thank you,” Percival said.

“You’ll firecall if you need me,” Dindrane said, her tone brooking no argument. “Look after Credence.”

“Of course,” said Percival, setting his soup bowl aside and pulling his sister into a hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re my little brother,” Dindrane said. “It’s my job to look after you.” She stepped back and pulled Credence into a hug. “Look after my brother,” she said. 

“I will,” Credence promised. 

“Good man,” said Dindrane, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

 

*

 

Percival visibly seethed his way through the files Seraphina brought him, snarling curses under his breath as he read. Credence half-expected smoke to start coming out of his ears, he was that angry.

He closed the last file and rubbed his face tiredly. 

“What a mess,” he sighed. “Tituba’s bones, this is going to be a nightmare to clean up.”

“It doesn’t need to be cleaned up right this second,” Credence reminded him. “Did you want to go to the safe house?”

“Not tonight,” said Percival. “I’m not sleeping anywhere I haven’t warded, and a house is bigger than a hospital room. I don’t like the thought of bringing you anywhere I haven’t checked out, either. We’ll go tomorrow, after the Bluebird processes our discharge paperwork. It’ll confuse the hell out of her. I usually check myself out against the healer’s advice.”

Credence was starting to build a different picture of Percival, now that they were free. He’d already known that Percival didn’t know how to stop fighting, and he was beginning to suspect that Percival didn’t know how to stop _working,_ either.

Clearly, Credence needed to learn how to look after Percival, too.

He changed back into his hospital pajamas and crawled into bed. Percival shrank the files and followed suit, curling protectively around Credence. He didn’t say anything when Credence started crying again, for Modesty and Chastity and even Ma, who he never wanted to see again. He’d gotten his wish, although he’d never expected to have it granted quite so permanently. He anchored himself against Percival’s chest, clinging to him when the grief threatened to drag him under. 

“Sorry,” he said, when he’d finally cried himself out.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Percival murmured, pressing a kiss to Credence’s forehead. “You’re allowed to grieve, Credence. The hurting doesn’t go away, just because you’ve decided to do something about it. Trust me on that one.”

Credence did. He held onto what Percival had said earlier like a lifeline. _You can change the world, my love, and I have no doubt that you’ll change it for the better._ He had to make things better. He had to make things _right._ It wouldn’t make up for Modesty, but at least it would keep other people from hurting the way he did right now.

“Get some sleep,” Percival advised. “We can sort out how to fix the world together tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow,” Credence agreed.

 

*

 

Miss Goldstein showed up bright and early the next morning, carrying a now-familiar pastry box and a wand wrapped in white silk. She handed the wand to Percival. “Madam President asked me to bring this to you,” she said.

“Ah,” said Percival, looking down at the wand in his hand. It was made of some kind of dark wood that looked almost black, with a silver band where Percival’s thumb would rest if he’d been holding it and capped with silver at the base. He gave the wand an experimental swish, startling all three of them when a shower of bright sparks emerged from it. “I wasn’t sure it would still work for me,” he murmured. “Seeing as Grindelwald defeated me.”

“Grindelwald never used your wand,” said Miss Goldstein. “He had one of his own, charmed to look like yours. I’m not sure that he could have, even if he’d wanted to. It’s loyal to you.”

“You make it sound like it’s alive,” Credence observed.

Miss Goldstein smiled at him. “Magical objects tend to take on a life of their own, sooner or later. Wands more so than most. They have very distinctive personalities.”

“Convenient,” Percival said. “I wasn’t looking forward to shopping for a new one, when this one’s served me so well.” He grinned, boyish and delighted. “We’ll have to get you one of your own,” he told Credence. “There’s a half-dozen wandmakers all over the country. We can visit them all, if you like.”

“After we get Mr. Grindelwald’s mess cleaned up and make things right,” said Credence. He wanted to see the world, but they had other priorities first. 

“Man after my own heart,” Percival said, pressing a kiss to Credence’s cheek. “Love you,” he said, low and soft.

“Love you, too,” Credence murmured back, a bit embarrassed to be making such a spectacle of themselves in front of Miss Goldstein, who was looking at Percival like she thought he’d been replaced by Mr. Grindelwald.

Again.

“I’m your superior officer, Goldstein, not _dead,”_ Percival said, sounding amused. “I am, in fact, capable of having a personal life outside of work, however distressing that might be for you.”

“It’s not that,” Miss Goldstein protested. “Well, it _is_ that, a little but – Nevermind,” she said, looking mortified. “What did you mean, you have to make things right?” she asked Credence.

Credence set his jaw, stubborn. “My younger sister’s dead,” he told her.

Miss Goldstein’s expression went pained. “I know,” she said. “I was there. I tried to help her. Newt and I both did. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

Credence blinked. “You tried to save her?” he asked. It made sense, he supposed. Miss Goldstein had tried to save him, too. “Thank you.”

The knowledge that _someone_ had tried to save Modesty helped a little. Magic hadn’t failed her. Not entirely.

It just hadn’t been enough, either.

“MACUSA failed us both,” Credence said. “Me and Modesty. Someone should have found us sooner; we should have grown up in your world and not in Ma’s. I want to make sure that what happened to us doesn’t happen to anyone else. I want to make sure that no more magical children grow up afraid of what they are, or of what they can do.”

“Oh,” said Miss Goldstein, eyes round and shining.

“I thought, what with your passive-aggressive pastry war, that this might be something you’d be interested in,” Percival told Miss Goldstein. “Also, as much as everyone appreciates Mr. Kowalski’s pastries, you really need to stop blaming Seraphina for adhering to the law.”

Credence blinked. “I think I’ve missed something,” he said. “Miss Goldstein’s _what?”_

“Passive-aggressive pastry war,” Percival said again.

Miss Goldstein scowled. “That is _not_ what I’ve been doing,” she huffed.

Percival lifted his eyebrows, amused. “Isn’t it? You’re providing MACUSA with a No-Maj’s pastries, purely out of the goodness of your heart, and not because Seraphina made you Obliviate Newt’s No-Maj?”

“He’s not _Newt’s_ No-Maj,” Miss Goldstein said, puffing up like an angry cat. “He’s _Queenie’s.”_

“Ah,” said Percival. “Queenie is Goldstein’s younger sister,” he explained, for Credence’s sake. “How on earth did Mr. Kowalski become _Queenie’s_ No-Maj?” 

Miss Goldstein gave a defiant half-shrug. “Jacob is a good man, inside and out,” she said. “Queenie liked him for it. He liked her too. And then Madam President told us to Obliviate him.”

“It _is_ the law,” Percival pointed out, very gently.

“It’s a stupid law!” Miss Goldstein retorted. “And anyway, we didn’t have to. Newt saw to that. Jacob stepped out into the rain voluntarily, and let the Swooping Evil venom erase his memories.”

Credence gave up on trying to figure out what the two of them were talking about on his own. “What does any of this have to do with you bringing us pastries?” he asked.

“Mr. Kowalski – Queenie’s No-Maj – is the one who bakes the pastries that Goldstein’s been bringing us,” Percival told him. “No-Maj’s aren’t allowed to retain their memories of any magical events, lest they discover our world and bring back the dark times from before MACUSA was founded. What happened with Grindelwald and the obscurus could have exposed our world, if Newt hadn’t intervened. Mr. Kowalski, as a No-Maj, shouldn’t remember _anything_ about our world, and yet here we are, eating pastries obviously shaped like magical beasts. Mr. Kowalski clearly remembers _something_ about our world. Goldstein is simply demonstrating her displeasure with the current state of events. Which I don’t, as a matter of fact, happen to disagree with. I’m merely protesting your methods, Goldstein. You can’t _guilt trip_ a superior officer into regretting a stupid decision. It just makes them dig in and defend it all the harder.”

Miss Goldstein folded her arms across her chest and glared defensively at Percival. “Are you speaking from personal experience, sir?”

“Yes,” Percival said. “I’ve been on both sides of that line.”

Miss Goldstein did not seem noticeably appeased by that admission.

Percival sighed. “Are you mad at me because of what Grindelwald tried to do to you while he was wearing my face, or are you still mad at me for demoting you to the Wand Permit office? I can apologize for one, but not the other.”

“What? No! What Grindelwald did wasn’t your fault; you were a prisoner,” Miss Goldstein said immediately. “I’m not angry about the other thing, either. You could have fired me, but you didn’t. I’m just – I’m just _angry,_ sir. None of what happened _should_ have happened. None of it was _right.”_

“I know,” Percival said gently. “As Aurors, we’re sworn to uphold the law. But the law is not infallible. A great many of ours are wrong, Rappaport’s Law in particular.”

Rappaport’s Law, Credence knew, was the one forbidding magical people contact with ordinary ones. Magical people and ordinary ones couldn’t be friends; they couldn’t share what they could do, or get married, or do pretty much anything together. It was what kept their worlds apart.

“Rappaport’s Law is unfair and unjust, a relic from a time when we were motivated by fear and selfish self-preservation. We can’t keep asking No-Maj born wizards to choose between our world and their families, or stripping them of their cultural heritage just because we’re afraid. We need to be _better_ than that.”

Credence knew about Rappaport’s Law, but he hadn’t known that Rappaport’s Law did all _that._ He wouldn’t have minded being taken away from Ma and not telling her about the magical world, but not being able to tell Modesty would have made him die on the inside every time he looked at her.

That, he decided, was the first thing that needed to be changed.

“I know all that,” said Miss Goldstein. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

“Change the world,” Credence said. “For the better.” 

“Work together,” said Percival. “You and Credence and Queenie all have a vested interest in this. Use that anger to make the world better, Goldstein.”

Miss Goldstein stared at Percival, her expression going thoughtful. “You’re angry, too,” she said. “What are you going to do, sir?”

Percival bared his teeth in a hunting cat’s smile. “I’m going to make the world _safe,_ so you can make it better.”

“I could help with that,” Miss Goldstein offered.

“You’re going to,” Percival told her. “I want you in Major Investigations once I’m back at work. I’ll put your transfer papers in personally.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Miss Goldstein, squaring her shoulders as though Percival had lifted a weight off of them.

Percival smiled wryly. “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m going to make you work for everything.”

“Good,” Miss Goldstein said. “That way I’ll know I’ve earned it.”

“Would you mind staying with Credence, while I look over the safe house?”

“No, sir,” Miss Goldstein said immediately. “I’d be delighted to.”

Credence suspected that Percival could have asked her to set herself on fire right now and gotten nothing but enthusiastic obedience. 

“I’ll just be –” Percival began.

“Take Miss Goldstein with you,” Credence interrupted.

Percival blinked. “I’d feel better if you had someone I trusted to look out for you while I’m gone.”

“And _I’d_ feel better if _you_ had someone I trusted watching your back,” Credence retorted. “I’m safe here. You warded the room yourself. No one can get in except the Bluebird, and _she’s_ not going to hurt me.”

Percival wavered. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you here alone,” he said eventually.

“I’ll be fine,” Credence said.

Percival pressed his wand into Credence’s hands. “Use this, if you need to,” he said, ducking in for a quick kiss. “Practice with it a little first. Start with _lumos_ and _nox._ It’s significantly easier to cast spells with a wand than without one.”

“It’s yours, though,” Credence pointed out. If Percival’s wand hadn’t wanted to work for Mr. Grindelwald, there was no reason to think that it would work any better for _him._ He barely had any training at all compared to Percival.

“And I’m yours,” Percival pointed out. “It will work for you because I’ve asked it to.”

Credence gave an experimental flick of Percival’s wand, startling back in amazement as a string of brightly colored lights burst into existence.

“Oh,” said Credence.

Miss Goldstein stared at both of them like she didn’t believe her own eyes.

“Come along, Goldstein,” Percival said, drawing Miss Goldstein’s attention away from Credence. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Goldstein, following Percival out of the room.

 

*

 

Goldstein clearly wasn’t certain if she should walk beside him as an equal or behind him as his subordinate. She hovered, awkwardly, not quite in step with him but not quite not, either.

Graves, who _knew_ that Goldstein wasn’t a threat, found that her presence half a step behind him set his nerves on edge. He had to remind himself more than once that it was just Goldstein, and that she was his subordinate and not a threat and that hexing her in a fit of paranoia was the sort of thing that the Department of Professional Standards and Integrity would have a field day with. Graves hated dealing with DPSI; most Auror’s did. The DPSI had no idea what proper field work was like, and they assumed that the view from their ivory tower made them smarter and better than anyone who worked with their boots on the ground. 

He shortened the length of his stride until Goldstein had no choice but to walk alongside him, because the alternative was walking exaggeratedly slowly or running straight into his back.

“May I?” Graves asked, extending his elbow to Goldstein. 

Goldstein gave him another look that suggested she thought that he’d lost his mind, but that didn’t stop her from tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. Graves thought about the safe house at 111 Park, and the familiar feel of his sister’s magic. He felt 111 Park call back, and Apparated them both there.

“Sir?” Goldstein asked, looking around.

“The safe house,” Graves told her, “is at 111 Park.”

“How did you –” Goldstein cut herself off. “Why are you showing me this, sir?”

“I told you,” Graves said. “I want you in Major Investigations. My team needs to know where to find me – for safe haven, if need be, or in Credence’s defense. Whatever happens, Credence and the child are your first priority. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” Goldstein said. She followed him to the front door. 

“Ah,” Graves said. “No.”

“Sir?” Goldstein asked, sounding bewildered.

“Wait here,” Graves told her. He trusted Dindrane’s magic, and Seraphina’s. Both of them would have notified him immediately if their wards had fallen last night, and he seriously doubted anyone could have wandered into 111 Park while it was under the Fidelius Charm. But he still wanted to check the house over on his own first. He’d already lost one protégé. He couldn’t risk losing another before he’d even put her on his team.

“Wait here,” Graves said again, a little more firmly this time. He stalked through the house, checking for potential entry points. Once he was satisfied that there was no one inside the house, he worked his way back towards the front door, casting wards as he went.

Goldstein stared at him, her eyes gone big and round. She swallowed hard. “How on earth did Grindelwald manage to defeat you?” She clapped her hands over her mouth a second later, like she wanted to physically drag the words back in her mouth. “Mercy Lewis, I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “I didn’t mean – you’re casting wards without your wand and I didn’t know anyone could do that, although it makes sense that if anyone can, it’d be you. Which you can, obviously, I just –”

“Breathe, Goldstein,” Graves advised. “I’m not angry.”

Goldstein deflated. “Oh thank goodness,” she said, still looking mortified. “Sorry, sir.”

“Maybe take a deep breath, next time?” he suggested. “I find that helps, when it comes to putting your foot in your mouth. It breaks up the flow of things.”

“Yes, sir,” Goldstein said, her mortification tinged with misery now.

Crap. He’d meant that as advice, not an attempt to shame her. Only a complete bastard would do something like that.

“To answer your question: I was drunk,” Graves told her. He thought maybe it would help, if Goldstein knew that he was as human and fallible and capable of fucking up as the next wizard.

“You were what?” she asked. There was a faint line between her eyebrows, like she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him correctly.

“Drunk,” he repeated. “Very drunk, actually. Now, I’m not saying that Grindelwald couldn’t have defeated me if I’d been completely sober, but I like to think that it would have evened the playing field a bit.”

Goldstein’s expression suggested that the pedestal she’d placed him on was wobbling quite a bit. “Why?” she asked.

Graves suspected that Goldstein would only blame herself if he told her the truth – that he was pissed at himself for having to demote her, when he should have listened to her from the get-go. _She’d_ been the one who wanted to help Credence right from the start, not him. Of the two of them, Goldstein had far less to blame herself for than he did. How much damage could have been avoided, if he’d only listened to her from the start? What kind of difference would it have made, for Credence and Modesty Barebone?

“Because I fucked up,” he said. “And I was angry with myself because of it. I didn’t _intend_ to get that drunk – that kind of loss of control is never a good idea as an Auror, much less one of my rank, because you never know when you’ll be called in unexpectedly – but I was angry enough that I didn’t care.” He sighed. “It was a stupid mistake. But that’s the problem with our line of work. Sometimes the stupid mistakes are the ones that cost you everything.”

Sometimes, Graves knew, the stupid mistakes were the ones that gave you more than they cost you. That was the kind of luck it didn’t pay to gamble on, though. It was a once in a lifetime sort of gift.

 _Credence_ was a once in a lifetime sort of gift.

Goldstein considered that. “Helping Credence almost cost me my career,” she said. “Helping Newt almost cost me everything. Stupid mistakes aren’t the only thing that can cost you everything. Sometimes doing the right thing costs you just as much.”

“I know,” Graves told her. “That’s one of the things I mean to change before we’re through. Doing the right thing will always have a cost, because not everyone agrees on what the right thing is, or even that it needs to be done. But no one should pay what you almost did.” He let that sink in for a second. “Are you familiar with the _arx pugnaculus_ spell?”

Goldstein hesitated, which Graves suspected meant that her familiarity was largely theoretical. He waited to see if she’d admit it.

“I’ve heard of it,” Goldstein said. “But I’ve never cast it.”

Graves liked her better for her honesty. Most junior Aurors lied, which was stupid, because they had to know that the next thing he was going to do was ask them to demonstrate.

“It works better if you cast it in tandem with someone else,” he told her. “Layer it, like you’re building it up brick by brick. It’s stronger that way. May I?” he asked, gesturing to her wand.

She hesitated again, and then handed it over.

Graves turned it over in his hand. Goldstein’s wand was even more simple in design than his own; his had a touch of silver inlaid in it. Goldstein’s was pure wood. Cedar, if he recalled correctly. Cedar and white river monster spine. It was a genuine Quintana.

Graves was no expert on wands, but one of Dindrane and Robert’s colleagues at the Fisher Institute was. Weiland had spent the better part of an hour talking Graves’ ear off about wand woods and cores and design. Graves had found it more interesting than any of the conversational alternatives (potions, Arithmancy theory, economics or politics) so he’d encouraged Weiland to keep talking. Apparently his own blackthorn and wampus cat hair wand was meant for a warrior’s use.

Cedar, Graves remembered, was unusually loyal and unexpectedly powerful in the defense of its owners loved ones. It suited Goldstein.

“You’ll want to keep the wand movements firm,” he said, demonstrating. “Keep your stance firm, too; this isn’t like dueling. The point of _arx pugnaculus_ is to be like stone: unyielding and impossible to knock down.”

He didn’t think Goldstein would have much trouble with that, given her personality.

Goldstein watched him cast the spell, eyes narrowed and visibly itching to take her wand back. Graves turned it over, hilt first, as was proper.

“Want to give it a try?” he asked.

 _“Arx pugnaculus,”_ Goldstein said, staggering back half a step.

“Keep your feet shoulder width apart,” Graves advised. “Don’t let it knock you down.”

 _“Arx pugnaculus,”_ she said again, braced for it this time.

“Good,” Graves told her. “Put a bit more power into it. Watch,” he told her. _“Arx pugnaculus.”_ The fortress spell was meant to be layered, building the protection up brick by brick. That had always seemed inefficient to Graves, who had taught himself to build walls instead.

“I don’t … I don’t think I can do that,” Goldstein said.

“Of course you can,” Graves assured her. “It takes time and practice. Think about Queenie and Mr. Kowalski and Newt – about all the people you want to protect. Think about Modesty. Then do whatever it takes to keep your people safe.”

 _“Arx pugnaculus,”_ Goldstein snapped, setting a short wall in place.

Graves made a mental note to keep an eye on her. Right now her anger was useful, but it could turn toxic if left unchecked. 

He raised his hands and his voice, weaving the spell around Goldstein’s. When the room was finished, they moved onto the next one and carried on until Goldstein could cast the spell as instinctively as Graves could.

It took the better part of the morning to ward all of 111 Park. Graves wanted to add an additional layer to the wards, but Goldstein looked spent.

“That’s enough for one day,” Graves said, catching her elbow when she sagged. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“No men in the building,” Goldstein said automatically. 

“What about Newt and Mr. Kowalski?” 

“They’re staying in Newt’s case, not our room,” Goldstein corrected. She stopped midstep. “Mercy Lewis,” she swore. “How did you know?”

“The statement Newt gave McRory,” said Graves. “Newt was pursuing his niffler into the bank where Mr. Kowalski was applying for a loan, which he never got. And yet you still managed to provide baked goods for your passive-aggressive pastry war that _look_ like they ought to have come from our world and don’t. The only logical conclusion is that you have access to the source of said baked goods. I assume Mr. Kowalski still plans on opening a bakery?”

“Newt wants Jacob to use the occamy shells as collateral,” Goldstein explained. “Jacob’s being stubborn about it.”

“Given that Newt implicated Mr. Kowalski in two separate heists and failed to Obliviate any of the No-Maj witnesses, I can understand Mr. Kowalski’s reticience,” Graves said dryly. “Eggshells made out of pure silver aren’t something the average No-Maj can just explain away.”

“That wasn’t Newt’s fault,” Goldstein protested. Honesty compelled her to add, “Well, it was, but it’s not like Newt did any of it maliciously.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Graves said. “But he’s a Scamander. A certain amount of reckless chaos tends to follow them wherever they go.”

Goldstein frowned at him. That clearly wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.

“Newt makes sense. What I don’t understand is how Mr. Kowalski remembered what happened when no one else did. It can’t have been the emotional aspect of it. The Shaw’s had just as much reason to remember, given the death of Henry Shaw, Jr.”

“I don’t know,” Goldstein said, in a vaguely shifty manner that suggested she knew full well why not and wasn’t going to admit to anything.

Ah, Graves though. Goldstein the Younger, then. He couldn’t fault Goldstein for wanting to protect her sister, or her sister’s beau.

He Apparated them both to where Goldstein and Goldstein the Younger had lodgings. “I’d like to speak with Newt, at some point,” he murmured. “If only so I can reassure Theseus that no harm came to his little brother in my city. You should consider putting the fortress spell on your apartment. Get Newt to help you, if Goldstein the Younger can’t.” 

“Yes, sir,” Goldstein said tiredly, and staggered up the stairs towards her room.


	6. Chapter 6

Graves Apparated back to the hospital and promptly discovered that Credence was nowhere in their room. He snarled under his breath, pulling his magic around himself like a cloak, ready to unleash it at the slightest provocation.

The Bluebird appeared at his side a second later, followed by Sally Rogers, who was ordinarily Graves’ favorite nurse and today represented nothing more than an obstacle between Graves and Credence.

“Stand down, Graves,” the Bluebird commanded.

“Where is Credence?” he demanded.

Sally flicked her wand and summoned a note that was sitting on the breakfast table. She flicked her wand again, and the note hit Graves in the forehead.

It occurred to Graves that Sally was his favorite because she didn’t take shit from anyone, and also that he’d probably pissed her off.

Yeah, she was going to make him pay for this.

The note was short, and written in an unfamiliar print. _Percival, I am in the meeting room with Miss Summersea. DON’T PANIC. Love, Credence._

Graves had never seen Credence’s handwriting before now. It was startlingly neat; he suspected Mary Lou wouldn’t tolerate anything else.

There was a possibility that the note was a forgery. There was no way to tell. Grindelwald hadn’t left either of them an abundance of writing materials, mostly because Graves would have used them as weapons. Graves had no idea what Credence’s handwriting actually looked like.

“I haven’t seen you this jumpy since the war,” the Bluebird said, her voice devoid of any emotion at all.

Graves would have felt better if she’d been pissed at him. The Bluebird didn’t _do_ neutral, unless she was dealing with some idiot a hairsbreadth from snapping.

Graves wasn’t a hairsbreadth from snapping. He _wasn’t._

“Strangely,” he said, dripping sarcasm, “being held prisoner by a genocidal terrorist is not unlike being a prisoner of war. I can’t imagine why I’d be concerned regarding the whereabouts of my pregnant fiancé.”

“You’re an Auror,” the Bluebird retorted, just as sarcastic. “You might consider doing a bit of investigating next time, before you decide to make lesser mortals tremble in your presence.”

“Er,” said Graves. “Yes, I suppose you have a point.”

The Bluebird sighed. Then she smacked him in the back of the head to let him know that she wasn’t _that_ angry with him. “Flowers, Graves,” she commanded. “My entire staff deserves flowers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graves said. “May I see Credence now?”

“Are you done being overprotective?” Sally asked.

“He’s still pregnant, so probably not,” Graves admitted.

“Well, at least you’re honest about being a dumbass,” sighed Sally. “Go on, then. And don’t traumatize Miss Summersea. She’s quite promising.”

_“I_ know that,” Graves grumbled. He’d arranged for Charlotte’s apprenticeship after all. 

He found Credence sitting with Charlotte in the meeting room where they’d both been statemented, frowning over one of Charlotte’s textbooks. 

“I’ve got a lot to learn,” he sighed.

“Me too,” Charlotte said sympathetically. She sounded like she was looking forward to it.

Credence looked up at Graves and smiled. “Miss Summersea was just showing me what else I could have done while you were unconscious,” he said. “Did Miss Goldstein go back to work?”

“I took Goldstein home,” Graves told him. “She helped ward the safe house. That sort of thing takes a lot out of you, if you’re not used to it. Hello, Charlotte.”

“Hi, Mr. Graves,” Charlotte said.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Graves asked.

“Healer Bluebird wants me to do a special internship before I graduate,” Charlotte told him. “She wants me to work with her on Saturdays.”

“Good for you,” Graves told her. “Your father is very proud.”

“I know,” said Charlotte, beaming.

“Ready to check out?” he asked.

“Yes, _please,”_ Credence said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Summersea,” he said. 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Charlotte said politely, turning back to her textbook. “It was nice seeing you, Mr. Graves.”

“You too, Charlotte. Don’t let the Bluebird scare you. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“That’s what my father says about you,” Charlotte pointed out. 

“My bite is _way_ worse than my bark,” Graves objected, feeling vaguely offended. “Ask anyone I’ve ever arrested.”

“You’re supposed to terrify criminals, Mr. Graves,” said Charlotte. “Apparently you’re a lot nicer to your subordinates than you want people to believe.”

Graves raised both of his eyebrows. “That … does not sound like something John would have told you.”

“Nope,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “Win explained it.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Win, either.”

“I edited out the swearing.”

“Ah,” said Graves. “Thank you, for that. I’d hate to have to kill Hughes for being a corrupting influence. Well. Study hard, Miss Summersea.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlotte said, with a smile that suggested she was humoring him.

“How did warding the safehouse go?” Credence asked.

“Very well,” Graves said. “Goldstein’s a quick study. She’d never cast the fortress spell before – I’ll show you that later – but she didn’t lie to me about it, either. A lot of junior Aurors do. She’s smart, Goldstein.”

“You wouldn’t want her for your protègè if she wasn’t,” Credence pointed out.

“True,” Graves agreed. “She’s going to be magnificent, though.” If Goldstein had the balls to go toe to toe with Grindelwald _after_ he’d sentenced her to death and made her think that Graves had betrayed her trust, then he had no doubt that she had the courage and the strength to change the world for the better, just like Credence did. 

“You two are going to make an incredible team,” he told Credence.

Credence reached out and laced his fingers with Graves’. “Not as good a team as we are,” he said.

Graves _had_ to kiss him for that. Credence made a faint noise of protest, wary of public displays of affection, and then tipped his head back, hungry for more.

Someone reached up and grabbed Graves’ ear, dragging him away from Credence.

“Ow,” said Graves.

“Not in the hospital,” said Sally.

Hello, payback, Graves thought, amused.

“Oh, god,” said Credence, hiding his face against Graves’ chest. “I’m so sorry!”

“Take him home if you’re going to have your way with him,” Sally said tartly. “The Bluebird’s already processed your discharge papers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graves said, dispelling the wards he’d cast on their room and miniaturizing the small mountain of bags Dindrane had brought them yesterday. He pocketed the lot of it and Apparated with Credence to 111 Park.

“Oh, no,” said Credence, bracing himself on Graves’ arm while he vomited all over the sidewalk. “I _hate_ traveling with magic,” he moaned, casting a muttered _scourgify_ with a wave of his hand. “Does this ever _stop?”_

Graves wished like hell that he’d asked the Bluebird more questions beyond just verifying that Credence and the child were healthy, because as far as he knew Apparating during pregnancy was perfectly safe. It hadn’t bothered Dindrane at all, and pretty much _everything_ set off Dindrane’s morning sickness. 

“It’s probably worse because you’re with child,” he said. “Your center of balance has shifted.”

“Augh,” said Credence.

Graves really hoped Dindrane had thought to pack some of Bessie’s Baby Balm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

 

*

 

The safe house at 111 Park was the nicest house Credence had ever seen. It was three stories tall and lightly furnished. The walls were white and so clean they practically gleamed in the early afternoon light, and thick carpets Credence itched to sink his toes into spilled over the hardwood floors in every room. It was the sort of house that would have taken hours of hard work every day to keep clean, he thought.

Or magic, he amended, taking a second look around. Magic made a lot of things easier, housework included.

“Are all of MACUSA’s safe houses like this?” he asked.

“Hm?” Percival had unshrunk Dindrane’s bags and was unpacking them in midair, sorting them into separate piles. He seemed a bit more at ease, behind wards he’d cast himself.

“I asked if all of MACUSA’s safe houses were this nice,” Credence told him.

“This isn’t a MACUSA safe house,” said Percival. “It’s ours.”

“It’s _what?”_ Credence demanded.

“Ours,” Percival repeated. “I wouldn’t risk you or our son in a MACUSA safe house. I have no idea how far Grindelwald spread his rot in MACUSA, and while the safe houses are kept strictly need to know, I can think of half a dozen ways someone could gain access to that information. I need to overhaul all of our security measures once I’m back at work.”

“That’s nice,” Credence said faintly. He had no idea what houses cost in the magical world, but he was fairly certain that buying one merited more than blithe unconcern about the cost. He knew that Percival’s family was wealthy – Percival had admitted as much, and there was all that talk about welcoming new blood with jewelry, which was a _tradition,_ apparently – but Percival hadn’t said just _how_ wealthy his family was.

“A new house MACUSA knows nothing about is safer and more practical,” Percival continued.

“Right,” Credence said, still feeling a little stunned. “More practical.”

_Wealth is just another form of power, and power is what we use to protect our people. We’ve always been practical about it,_ Percival had said. 

_Practical_ was not the word Credence would have used. _Extravagant_ seemed like a much better fit. Or possibly _crazy,_ although that seemed a bit rude.

What was it like, he wondered, to have so much money that you could afford to make your problems go away however you pleased?

He suspected, as Percival’s husband, that he would have a chance to find out. The sheer impossibility of it made him feel a little dizzy.

“I think I’ll go lie down now,” he decided.

“Are you feeling alright?” Percival asked, instantly concerned.

“I just need a little nap,” Credence assured him.

“I’ll come join you in a little bit,” said Percival.

“Alright,” Credence said, and went to go find a room with a big enough bed for both of them.

 

*

 

Credence was dozing lightly when Percival crawled into bed next to him, curling protectively around Credence’s back. He slung one arm around Credence’s chest, his hand coming to rest against Credence’s stomach. 

“Did you get everything sorted?” Credence asked, relaxing into Percival’s warmth.

“Yes,” Percival murmured. “We should be fine for a few weeks. Dindrane sent you some books.”

“That was nice of her,” Credence murmured back. Part of him wanted to get out of bed and see what kind of books Dindrane had sent him. The rest of him just wanted to stay in bed with Percival, reveling in the familiar warmth of Percival’s body, and being able to touch Percival without worrying about causing further harm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so certain that touching Percival wouldn’t aggravate any of the hurt Mr. Grindelwald had left behind. It felt like forever.

Credence wanted to touch him _everywhere._ The hunger rose up, bright and hot and overwhelming. He wanted to caress every bit of Percival’s skin, to trace his mouth over Percival’s scars and kiss his way down Percival’s chest. He wanted to kiss Percival lower than that, to take Percival’s cock in his mouth and please him, the way Percival liked to please him. He suspected he wouldn’t be as good at it as Percival was, but he didn’t think Percival would hold that against him.

“Credence?” Percival asked.

Credence squirmed until he had enough room to turn around and face Percival. He stripped off his shirt and watched the way Percival’s expression went from startled to predatory delight. Credence’s chest was nothing to look at, not really, but he knew that Percival thought otherwise. Percival’s eyes went hot, and they roamed over Credence’s bare skin like he wasn’t sure he could make himself _stop_ looking.

Credence took advantage of Percival’s distraction to attack the buttons on Percival’s shirt. He straddled Percival’s hips and pressed kisses against each newly revealed patch of skin.

_“Mine,”_ Credence said, with a faint trace of teeth against Percival’s skin. He liked it when Percival did that to him, and he thought Percival might like it too.

Percival did, if the way he swore was any indicator.

“You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” Credence told him, which was nothing but God’s honest truth. He licked his way down Percival’s ribs, which were still far too visible for his liking. Credence promised himself that he was going to learn how to cook, so he could feed Percival up, safe in the knowledge that no one else would ever control what either of them ate ever again. Percival would never have to choose between slow starvation and their son’s well-being – not if Credence had any say in the matter.

“Every bit of you is handsome,” said Credence, mouthing over the thin white scar that ran from Percival’s belly to his lower left ribs. 

“I don’t have a patch on you,” Percival said, sounding amused. “You’re gorgeous.”

Credence snorted in disbelief. He knew what he looked like. 

Percival looked a little bit like he wanted to prove it, but that would mean surrendering control and letting Percival put his pleasure first. Credence wasn’t ready to do that, not just yet, so he unbuttoned Percival’s trousers and put his mouth on Percival’s cock.

“Fucking hell!” Percival yelped. 

Credence pulled back, trying not to gag. He’d taken too much in all at once. Percival made it look easy, but he suspected he needed a lot more practice at it.

He curled one hand around the base of Percival’s cock, stroking gently. He tried licking across the head of it, which worked much better. Credence decided that he liked the salty-bitter taste, and did it again, soft kittenish laps of his tongue that made Percival swear under his breath.

Percival made a low rumbling noise in his chest, almost like he was purring. Then he pulled Credence’s hand away, gesturing for Credence to stop.

“Did I do it wrong?” Credence asked.

“Did you do it _wrong?”_ Percival repeated, incredulous. “Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Then why did you make me stop?” 

“Because if you didn’t, this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly,” Percival said dryly, dragging Credence up for a kiss. “I’m not in my twenties anymore, lovely. It’ll take me ages to go again once I’ve come. And I’d rather not do that until we’re _both_ satisfied.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He stripped out of his pants and straddled Percival’s lap, bending down to kiss him again. He squirmed a little, trying to ask Percival to use the spell that would make him slick inside without actually using the words.

Percival seemed to know what he meant. Credence moaned at the familiar feel of Percival’s magic.

“You need to teach me that spell,” he said. 

Percival liked to finger him open, careful and slow. Credence liked that more than he was comfortable admitting, but right now he wanted to focus on Percival’s pleasure. He groped behind himself, sliding two fingers inside before Percival could. “Oh,” he said, squirming a little. It was still good, even if the angle was a little awkward and his fingers weren’t as big as Percival’s were. He hadn’t realized that his own touch would feel this good. He spread his fingers apart, searching for the spot Percival found so effortlessly every time. 

_“Fuck,”_ said Percival. “Do you have any idea what you look like? This is the stuff of fantasies, gorgeous.”

Credence frowned at him. “You think about me touching myself?” he asked. _His_ fantasies were all about _Percival_ touching _him._

_“Yes,”_ Percival said fervently. “Fuck, I thought about that far too often in that fucking cell. I thought about coming home to you, about finding you naked in our bed, squirming on your fingers or a toy. I thought about just shoving my pants down and sliding inside of you where I belonged, where you were slick and open and waiting for me.”

“Oh,” Credence said, a little stunned by how much he enjoyed that thought. “I could – I’d like that too,” he said. “You should do that now,” he added.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Percival said, drawing Credence’s fingers away and pulling Credence onto his cock. “Oh, fuck, you feel so good.”

“You too,” Credence gasped, arching into Percival’s touch. Percival managed to find his sweet spot instantly, and was ruthless about exploiting it. “I like the way you feel inside of me. It feels _right.”_ He wanted to ride Percival, careful and slow, and he wanted Percival to take him, fast and hard, big hands that would never hurt him holding him up, caressing every inch of his skin. He wanted to hear more of Percival’s fantasies, wanted to know about all the things they could do together – all the things he didn’t even know how to imagine properly.

And he knew – he _knew,_ down to his bones – that he could have all of it.

That thought sent him over the edge of desire and straight into ecstasy.

“Want me to stop?” Percival asked.

“Don’t you dare,” Credence said, breathless and shivering through the aftershocks.

“As you wish,” Percival said, and obeyed.

Credence sprawled across Percival’s chest when they were finished and kissed him, languid and content. 

“Tell me a story?” Credence asked.

“A long, long time ago,” Percival began, “when wizards lived alongside No-Maj’s and neither feared the other, three knights who had once been part of King Arthur’s Round Table set out to find the magical goblet known as the Grail. They hoped to restore Camelot, and the world that they knew – the one where wizards and No-Maj’s lived together in harmony, rather than fear. Their names were Percival, Galahad and Bors the Younger. With them rode Percival’s sister Dindrane, a witch born to No-Maj parents.

“Their quest took them far from their homes – far from Camelot, and everything they’d ever known. They followed dreams and portents, trusting Dindrane to sift through the magic and tell them what was real. And in the end, their quest led them to castle of the Fisher King, who had been tasked with keeping the Grail safe from harm.

“The Fisher King was a No-Maj, who in his younger years had followed Arthur into Annwn, the Otherworld, and been tasked by Arthur himself to keep the spoils safe. One such item was the Grail, a small bronze cauldron inlaid with mother-of-pearl – a magical object so powerful it could produce miracles, if held in the right hands. Magical objects are rarely kind to No-Maj’s, though, and the Grail was no exception.

“In Arthur’s hands, the Grail worked miracles. Arthur might have been a No-Maj, but he was also the High King, foretold by prophecy and blessed by magic. He could drink from the Grail itself and come to no harm, for the Grail loved Arthur as magic did. And Arthur, in his wisdom, sent the Grail away and charged the Fisher King with keeping it safe, because he thought that no one man should hold such power.

“In the Fisher King’s hands, the Grail was nothing more than a pretty trinket. He swore that he would not attempt to use it, but of course he did. The Fisher King, like all kings and men of stature, wanted a son and heir to inherit his castle and keep his people safe from harm once he was gone. The long, lonely years passed and still there was no son, and the Fisher King dared to think that maybe, just maybe, the Grail would work for him the way it worked for Arthur, and heal whatever in him was broken and let him sire a son. 

“But because magical objects are rarely kind to No-Maj’s, the Grail dealt him a curse instead – a grievous wound that rendered him unable to sire any child at all. He would have died without issue, the secret of the Grail buried with him, had the Grail knights not shown up at the door.

“The Fisher King recognized that Dindrane was a witch; that magic was in her blood. He demanded Dindrane, first, and when that failed, demanded her blood instead. He thought that the blood of a witch might help him use the Grail to do what he wanted. He tried to take it by force, but the three young knights resisted. ‘I would rather die than see my sister come to harm at your hands,’ said Percival. ‘I swear it by the Round Table, and on magic itself.’” 

“He sounds familiar,” Credence murmured, amused. 

Percival snorted. “I’m not nearly so reckless.”

“Yes, you are!” Credence said. He poked Percival in the ribs. “Don’t even try to deny it. I know better.”

“You really do,” Percival said fondly. “And you haven’t even heard about my teenage years yet.”

“Are they worse than you being naked in the woods and jumping off waterfalls?”

Percival considered that for a long moment. Credence suspected that he was trying to justify his teenage adventures to himself first, before he tried to convince Credence that they were harmless.

“So, yes,” Credence concluded.

Percival cleared his throat. _“Anyway,”_ he said determinedly. “The Fisher King took Percival at his word, as did the Grail. ‘You have made a bargain,’ he said, ‘and by magic itself you must honor it.’ He drew his knife and dealt the young knight a grievous would that mirrored his own, catching Percival’s blood in the Grail and drinking from it.”

“He did _what?”_ Credence demanded. That was the sort of thing that was better suited for one of Ma’s sermons – dark magic and _blood sacrifice,_ the tools of the Devil and his ilk. He’d never expected to hear about it in one of Percival’s stories.

“Blood magic is old magic,” Percival said. “It’s less common now than it was, and the penalties for using it are severe. We tell ourselves that we’re civilized now, but there will always be men like Grindelwald, who think that the benefits of such things outweigh the cost.”

“There will always be men like you, too,” Credence said. “Men who will stop the ones like Mr. Grindelwald.”

“You have such faith in me,” Percival said. “I hope I never let you down.”

“You won’t,” Credence said firmly. _He_ knew that for a fact, even if Percival didn’t. “What happened to the other Percival?”

“Well, that’s where the story gets interesting. The No-Maj’s would have you believe that it was Dindrane who sacrificed herself for their quest. That she used her blood to save the life of the Fisher King, or the chatelaine of a nearby castle. My mother had this whole lecture on how No-Maj’s devalue the roles of women in their stories as well as their history. I’ll give you her paper on it, sometime. It’s fascinating stuff.”

“I’d like that,” Credence said, a little surprised by how much he meant it. “The magical world does seem more advanced than the ordinary one,” he admitted. “Women have more choices if they’re witches.”

They could be presidents and doctors and court whomever they pleased, just to start. If he and Percival ever had a daughter, Credence was glad she’d grow up in Percival’s world rather than his own.

He wished Modesty had been able to grow up in it, too.

“How does the story end?” Credence asked. 

“The Fisher King had found an heir for himself at last. Percival stayed with him, while the others left to complete their quest. Dindrane wept bitterly, to lose her brother so soon after being reunited with him. ‘Go, sweet sister,’ Percival told her. ‘Take the Grail and restore Camelot to its rightful glory.’ And so Dindrane went, carrying the Grail with her, for it was only harmless in her hands.

“But prophecy is a funny thing. Magic had foretold of Arthur’s birth, and magic said that he would rise again, as the once and future king. But the time for such things had not yet come, so try as they might, Camelot could not be restored.

“‘What good is magic, if we cannot use it to set things right?’ Dindrane asked. ‘Why were we sent on a quest? What did my brother sacrifice his life for, if not for this?’ She did not expect an answer, because Galahad and Bors the Younger were No-Maj’s and knights, unused to the finer points of magic’s ways and dealing with women who fought just as well as men did. But it was Galahad who answered, for he had fallen in love with Dindrane’s strength as well as her beauty. ‘Camelot cannot be raised again, but we can still make the world right once more. We will find a way to help your brother and anyone else in need, as Arthur and Merlin would have wanted.’ And that was exactly what they did, for all the rest of their days.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair to Percival,” Credence pointed out.

Percival chuckled. “That’s not the end of his story. Percival made the woods and the river outside the Fisher King’s castle his home. He learned how to fight despite his injury, and how to be a good king to his people. And if he had no sons and daughters of his own, well, what did that matter? He had Dindrane and Galahad’s children to love, the blood of his blood, raised with magic and the sword.”

“Oh,” Credence said, glad that Percival’s namesake had gotten a happy ending of his own. “That’s alright, then.”

“Happy endings for all,” Percival agreed. “Nap?” he asked. “Or a bath and some dinner?”

Credence thought about the enormous claw-footed tub he’d found in one of the bathrooms. It was big enough for two people, and when he’d run one of the taps it had produced _real hot water,_ which seemed an unimaginable luxury to him. He hadn’t had a proper bath since Mr. Grindelwald took him prisoner, and there had never been enough hot water to go around at the church. Ma said such luxuries were sinful.

Credence could have any luxury he wanted, now. No one would ever tell him that they were sinful – that _he_ was sinful – ever again.

“A bath and some dinner,” he decided. 

“Excellent,” said Percival, and went to prepare the tub.

They made love in the bathtub and got water absolutely everywhere. Percival dried the room with a wave of his wand and laughed at Credence’s blissed out expression. “You look like a sleepy kitten,” he said.

“Hot water and sex are my new favorite combination,” Credence said, too pleased with the world to bother with finding an appropriate euphemism. 

Percival made a faint, plaintive noise of protest. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said again. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”

 

*

 

Goldstein turned up again just after sunset, carrying a paper bag with pastry nifflers in it and a venomous tentacula as a housewarming present.

“I wanted to get you something decorative,” she said, “but I figured this would suit you better.”

“Hello, beautiful,” Graves crooned at it, which got him a look of vague alarm from Goldstein and puzzled amusement from Credence. “Who’s the prettiest poisonous plant?” 

“It’s poisonous?” Credence asked.

“Very,” Graves said. “And mobile. They’ll grab hold of people who get too close. They’re _marvelous_ for home security, if you treat them right. Thank you, Goldstein.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Goldstein said. She looked a little like she’d wished she’d gotten them something decorative after all.

“I’m going to call you Helena,” Graves decided. 

Goldstein made a squeaking noise Graves thought might have been a laugh. She covered it quickly enough, looking attentive and polite when he turned back to face her. Graves couldn’t resist the urge to tease her a little, and winked at her before settling Helena somewhere cool and lightly shaded.

“Newt would like to speak with you, too,” said Goldstein. “But we didn’t think he’d be welcome here just yet.”

“Not until I’ve vetted him, no,” Graves agreed, suppressing the reflexive desire to snarl unreasonably at the thought of a relative unknown in his territory; near his _family._ Before this – before Grindelwald, before _Credence_ – Graves would have said that he trusted anyone Theseus trusted implicitly. Theseus had good instincts. If Theseus vouched for someone, that was good enough for Graves, or at least it had been. Now he didn’t trust anyone’s word but his own. He couldn’t afford to be careless with Credence’s safety, or their son’s. 

“Who is Newt?” Credence asked. 

“A British magizoologist,” Goldstein said.

“Theseus’ little brother,” said Graves.

Credence blinked. “Your friend Theseus? The war hero?” he asked. 

“Newt is his younger brother. He shares Theseus’ belief that fear is something that happens to other people, although his brand of it tends to manifest around magical creatures rather than people.”

“He’s writing a book about them,” Goldstein told them. _“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.”_

Graves saw a drastic upswing in creature related incidents in his future. “Lovely,” he said.

Goldstein gave him a sharp look, like she knew what he was thinking. She couldn’t, as far as Graves knew. Queenie was the only Legilimens in the family.

Thank magic for that. Goldstein was dangerous enough without being able to read people’s thoughts.

“What is Newt doing in New York?” Credence asked.

“Causing trouble,” Graves said.

Goldstein scowled at him. “Research,” she said. “For his book. And to return an illegally trafficked thunderbird to his proper home.”

“New York is not the proper place for a thunderbird!”

“Frank can fly; he can get home on his own.”

“Frank,” Graves repeated. “Newt named a thunderbird _Frank?”_

“What’s wrong with Frank?” Goldstein demanded.

Goldstein was being unusually combative, where Newt was concerned. What the hell, thought Graves. He narrowed his eyes. Mr. Kowalski was Queenie’s No-Maj. Did that make Newt Tina’s wizard?

Theseus would kill him if his baby brother moved to the states and married an American witch.

“Nothing,” said Graves. “It’s a fine name. Just not one I would have given a thunderbird.”

“What would you call a thunderbird, then?”

“I don’t know. Thor?” Thor seemed like a good name for a thunderbird, what with being the god of thunder and all.

Goldstein sniffed. Then she turned to Credence. “Promise me you won’t let the Director name your baby,” she said seriously. “He has no imagination at all.”

“Yes, he does,” Credence protested. He immediately went red and quiet, doubtless remembering exactly how good Graves’ imagination was, and what Graves had imagined him doing.

“Goldstein, I will fire you for your cheek,” Graves threatened. He regretted it a second later. He threatened to fire his team on a regular basis, but Goldstein wasn’t on his team yet, and might take the threat seriously.

“You like it when people are cheeky,” Goldstein shot back. “Or you’d have fired Hughes _and_ Summersea ages ago.”

Or she might not.

“Mercy Lewis,” Graves said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Goldstein was going to be _magnificent._ He was going to have such _fun,_ watching her grow into the Auror he knew she would be.

“Can you bring Newt to MACUSA tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject. 

Goldstein hesitated. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?”

Graves raised an eyebrow at her. “Is there any reason not to?”

“If I say yes, will you make me list them? I’m not trying to be cheeky, sir. I just … I’d rather not.” Goldstein twisted her hands together, clearly uncomfortable.

Graves remembered abruptly that a man wearing his face had tried to kill her within MACUSA’s walls. MACUSA was his safe haven, but he could hardly blame Goldstein if it was no longer hers.

“No,” he said. “I trust your judgment.” He forced himself to weigh the odds. Newt wasn’t a threat. Logically, rationally, he _knew_ that Newt wasn’t a threat. Goldstein wouldn’t go to bat for him if he were. But he didn’t welcome the idea of letting Newt know where his safe house was. “Bring him here,” he said. “In that case of his. Do _not_ tell him where the safe house is, not just yet. And so help me, if any of his creatures get loose in here, I will risk Theseus’ wrath and arrest him myself.”

Goldstein beamed at him. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“And Goldstein?” Graves asked.

“Sir?”

“Tell Mr. Kowalski I’d be delighted to pay him in whatever currency he prefers to bake for the Healers and Nurses at St. Brigid’s.”

“I’m sure No-Maj money will be fine,” Goldstein said.

Graves shrugged. “You said he was Queenie’s No-Maj,” he pointed out. “He’ll need to be able to move in our world, one way or another, if she really means to keep him.”

“You really mean to change Rappaport’s law, don’t you,” Goldstein said, dark eyes gone wide and thoughtful.

“Me? No,” said Graves. “I told you, I’m going to make the world safe so the two of you can change it.”

_“How?”_ Goldstein demanded.

Graves looked back at Credence, who was a steady, reassuring presence at his side. “Why don’t you two sit down and try and figure it out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was incredibly tempting to make this a stealth crossover with Captain America, guys. I super wanted to call the nurse Sarah Rogers. Just. So much. I went with Sally instead, after Sally Jackson, who is one of my other favorite fictional moms.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Goldstein – “Tina,” she told him firmly, “call me Tina” – didn’t have any more idea of how to change the world than Credence did – at least not at first.

She gave Percival a dubious look. “Is this a test, sir?”

“What makes you think that?” Percival asked, his tone so blandly innocent it was as good as a confession.

“That means yes,” Credence told her.

Tina sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

“Work the problem,” Percival told them both. He’d conjured up a fresh pad of crisp white paper and had already filled up three pages of it with tight, slanting script. It didn’t look like he planned on stopping any time soon.

Tina narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t a case that needs solving.”

“Isn’t it?” Percival asked absently.

Tina scowled. “It’s politics.”

“Politicians,” Percival informed her, “are generally no better than criminals. It makes them easy to profile.”

“President Picquery isn’t a criminal,” Tina protested.

“Seraphina’s the exception,” Percival said.

“She’s exceptional,” Credence murmured, echoing what Percival always said whenever he talked about Seraphina.

“Just so,” said Percival with a pleased smile.

“Think about what the opposition’s going to say,” Percival advised. “Then make your case airtight.”

Credence hoped that meant something to Tina, because as far as he could tell Percival was being cryptic for the sake of being cryptic.

Tina grinned. “I hope you like research,” she told Credence. “We need facts and _numbers.”_

Credence grinned back. “It’s for a good cause,” he told her, in lieu of admitting that he’d never done research, unless reading the Bible counted.

“Excellent,” said Tina. “First we need to know the law inside and out.”

“And after that?” Credence asked, because Tina seemed to have some sort of plan in mind. He didn’t mind following Tina’s lead – she’d been a witch longer than he’d been a wizard, and worked for MACUSA besides – but he would do so as her equal. That meant that _both_ of them needed to be in on the plan. He’d had enough of being kept in the dark for his own good.

He slanted a look at Percival, who was arguably the worst about that sort of thing. Percival didn’t seem to notice, turning another page and continuing to fill it with what Credence realized was a list.

“Then we figure out who the law helps and who it hurts,” Tina told him. “People like you – people like Modesty – you’re not the only ones we’ve failed.”

“The other No-Maj born wizards,” Credence guessed. The ones who couldn’t tell their families what they really were, or where they went to school or what their jobs were. How many of them kept in touch with their families, knowing that a slip of the tongue meant breaking the law? How many of them thought it was easier to just disappear?

What did that do to their families? New York had plenty of unwanted children – he’d been one of them, once – but if _his_ son simply disappeared one day, Credence would rip the world apart to try and get him back.

“The other No-Maj born wizards,” Tina confirmed. “We’ll need to do interviews. It’ll go better if we have _proof_ of the kind of damage Rappaport’s Law is capable of – of what our laws really cost.” She thought about that. “Having a Healer’s testimony would help, too.”

“The Bluebird would help,” Credence said. “If we asked.” He was pretty sure she would, at any rate. Maybe if Percival asked. She liked him, no matter what either of them said.

“I’m sure the Bluebird is much too busy,” Tina hedged.

It occurred to Credence that Tina might be a little bit intimidated by the Bluebird. That made sense, he supposed. Tina hadn’t met her, and didn’t know how kind she was.

“Percival?” Credence asked.

“I’ll ask,” said Percival. 

Tina made a faint noise of disbelief. “That’s one way of getting things done,” she murmured.

“A very great deal of politics depends on who you know,” Percival said.

Tina rolled her eyes. “I know _that,”_ she said. “I’m not naive, sir. I just didn’t expect to be someone who _knew_ people.”

“Stick around,” Percival said, still not looking up from his list-making. What _was_ he making lists of, Credence wondered. “Start making waves, and sooner or later _you’re_ going to be one of the people to know.”

Tina made a faint garbled noise at that, like she was having trouble imagining that and also wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Credence patted her hand sympathetically. He knew exactly how she felt.

Tina stayed long enough for a cup of tea and to make a couple of lists of her own. Credence had his own copies, as well as a few notes. 

Percival handed her a pouch full of coins and three sheets of paper, each with a different list.

“Sir?” Tina asked, frowning over the top page.

“I need supplies,” Percival told her. “Use whatever’s left over to pay Mr. Kowalski. If whatever’s left doesn’t add up to a fair wage, let me know and I’ll pay you the difference.”

“Rosemary, powdered hematite, runespoor eggs, snowdrops, dragonglass crystal … are you making a rememberall, sir?”

“An anti-Obliviation charm,” said Percival. “For Mr. Kowalski. The next list is a suggestion of measures you can take, against the eventuality of anyone trying.”

Tina’s back straightened reflexively, her right hand twitching in the direction of her wand. She forced herself not to reach for it, which Credence thought was probably for the best. Percival was still twitchy enough that anything even vaguely resembling a threat would be destroyed with extreme prejudice.

“Do you really think people will try?” Tina asked, but there was a frosty undertone to her voice that said she already knew what Percival was going to say, because she’d been thinking the same thing.

“Anyone who tries will simply be upholding the law,” Percival said, blunt but honest. He didn’t try to soften the truth with pretty words at all, which Credence suspected Tina appreciated. Percival just gave her the truth and expected her to absorb the blow and deal with it – like an equal. 

Credence felt guilty for being ever so slightly jealous of Tina for that. 

“Depending on who it is, they might let you explain, they might not. Whatever Queenie did to protect Mr. Kowalski the first time might not work a second one. You can’t depend on your ability to talk Mr. Kowalski’s way out of harm. It’s not fair to him, and most Obliviators are trained to cast first and ask questions later where No-Maj’s are concerned. This should even the playing field a bit.”

Tina looked over the second list. “Will getting Jacob a Pensieve really help?” she asked.

“It might,” Percival told her. “They don’t tend to react violently to No-Maj’s, the way that wands do. If your sister’s as powerful a Legilimens as I think she is, she’ll be able to give Mr. Kowalski back his memories, if need be. Better she has his own memories to work off of than her own version of things. Reliving someone else’s memories can be … disorienting.”

Tina looked down at the lists in her hands and nodded. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Newt and I will stop by tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

“That will be fine,” Percival told her. 

Tina tucked the lists into her jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Credence,” she said, and vanished.

 

*

 

Tina knocked on their door just after breakfast the next day, carrying a travel-worn leather suitcase and a paper bag that clanked alarmingly when she handed it to Percival.

“Thank you, Goldstein,” he said. He eyed the suitcase suspiciously.

So did Credence. Percival had explained that Newt’s suitcase was magic, but Credence was having some trouble wrapping his head around the idea of a suitcase big enough to hold two men and a bunch of magical animals. It had to be heavy – it _looked_ heavy; Tina used both her hands to carry it – but it obviously wasn’t as heavy as it should have been.

Magic made it possible for Credence to carry Percival’s son; to create light out of nothing and clean up messes without ever dirtying his hands. Credence adored magic, but he didn’t think he’d ever understand it.

Tina set the suitcase on the floor and rapped briskly on the lid. After a second, the lid swung open and a man with ginger hair poked his head out of it.

“Ah,” he said, a little awkwardly. “Hello.” 

He was tall, Credence realized, as the other wizard climbed out of the case. Tall and lean, with freckles spread across his pale skin like stars in the night sky. He wore a vivid blue coat over a bronze-colored waistcoat and wool trousers that Ma would have approved of: heavy and serviceable and neatly-mended.

He didn’t look particularly fearless, Credence thought. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Scamander,” Percival said firmly. “I don’t know if you remember me. We met during the war.”

“I remember you,” Newt told him. “You fought alongside my brother. Theseus still speaks very highly of you.” He had an accent. It wasn’t like Mr. Grindelwald’s. Newt’s was mellifluous and kind. Credence rather liked listening to it.

“I owe him a letter,” Percival said. “And I believe I owe you an apology.”

Newt’s gaze flickered to Percival’s face and dropped again just short of making eye-contact. “Whatever for?” he murmured. 

“A man with my face tried to kill you,” Percival pointed out. “Among other things.”

Newt’s gaze flickered up again. “That doesn’t make you responsible for his behavior.”

“Still,” said Percival, who would take the whole worlds sins on his shoulders if he could. 

It was, Credence thought with vaguely irritated blasphemy, a little bit like living with Christ the Redeemer. Why had none of the gospels mentioned how exasperating living with a martyr was? The Bible had taught him that martyrs were blessed and holy, and that the strength of their convictions was the true path to God. Credence wasn’t sure what the strength of Percival’s convictions was the true path to, but he suspected it was an early grave rather than God.

Percival wasn’t allowed to die. Not while Credence and their son still needed him.

“I’m sorry for what Grindelwald tried to do to you,” Percival continued. “You and Goldstein both. His actions weren’t my own, but they were done in my name. If House Scamander demands reparations, House Graves will answer them.”

Newt made a noise that was somewhere between a purr and a giggle, all delighted animal amusement. It made Tina give him a soft, warm look.

“Now you sound like the man from my brother’s stories,” Newt said, straightening up and making eye contact with Percival. “I thought maybe you’d changed since the war, but you haven’t. That was Grindelwald.”

“I didn’t know you’d met Director Graves before,” Tina said. “You never said.”

“It didn’t seem relevant, at the time,” Newt told her. “We met very briefly in passing. Theseus’ unit was off doing something fantastically reckless –”

“This from the man who spent the war working with _dragons,”_ muttered Percival.

“– and Theseus made them swing through where I was garrisoned to check up on me. My brother’s a bit overprotective,” Newt explained, a bit apologetically. Credence wondered why he sounded sorry about that. If he’d had an older brother to protect him, then –

Well, things probably would’ve turned out about the same. He hadn’t exactly done a great job of looking after Modesty. Just because someone _wanted_ to protect you didn’t mean that they _could._

His left hand went to the hard bump that was Percival’s son, unconscious and unthinking. He was going to do better, this time.

“He is,” Percival agreed, drawing Credence’s attention back to the conversation happening in front of him. “Which is why I wanted to speak with you.”

“You saved my brother’s life, during the war. House Scamander owes House Graves a life debt. Even if I were inclined to demand reparations – which I am not – no arbiter would ever grant them,” Newt said evenly.

Percival shrugged. “Theseus saved mine. Whatever life debt House Scamander thinks it owes House Graves was settled years ago.”

Credence frowned. They were talking about their families like they were separate entities in their own right. He’d heard of ordinary powerful families being spoken of in the same way – like they were royalty, maybe – but he didn’t know enough about Percival’s world to know which wizarding families were the equivalent of the Waldorfs or the Vanderbilts.

Given Percival’s attitude towards money, he probably should have guessed that the Graves’ were one of them before this.

He looked over at Tina, hoping she might be able to explain some of the excessive formality, but Tina looked just as lost as he was.

“I see no reason for there to be any debt between us,” Newt said carefully, watching Percival with bright, wary eyes. 

Percival didn’t look happy about Newt’s answer, for some reason, but he nodded. “Very well,” he said briskly. “But my name is yours to call on, should you need it.”

“Thank you,” Newt said quietly. “Forgive me for saying that I hope that day never comes.”

Credence caught Tina’s eye and tilted his head towards the kitchen. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea?” 

Newt brightened. “Tea would be lovely.”

“We’ll just be right back,” Credence said, grabbing hold of Tina’s hand and all but dragging her into the kitchen with him. “What was _that?”_ he hissed, flailing his arm in the direction of the living room and the ridiculously formal double-speak conversation Percival and Newt were having.

Tina bit her lip. “I don’t – I’m not sure, exactly,” she murmured. “Queenie and me, we’re from an ordinary wizarding family. We’re nothing special. I thought that’s what Newt was too, but I guess he’s like Director Graves.”

“Are Newt’s ancestors special too? Like the Twelve?”

“You know about the Twelve?”

“Percival told me,” Credence explained, grabbing mugs down from the cabinets. “He didn’t say they were –” he flailed his arm in the direction of the living room again, groping for the appropriate word _“– that,”_ he concluded.

“Not all of them are,” Tina admitted. “The Graves family’s always been a bit different. We don’t have aristocrats here, not like they do in Europe, so they’re not lords or anything. But there are some bloodlines that are old enough and powerful enough to warrant the same amount of respect. They’re wizarding high society, for lack of a better term. Dealing with them has its own brand of etiquette.”

“Great,” muttered Credence. “Something else to learn.” Ma had always been very particular about their manners. Hopefully that would be enough to keep him from insulting anyone by accident.

Tina threw a giant fistful of Irish Breakfast tea into the pot. “It’s how Newt likes his tea,” she explained, conjuring up a stream of boiling hot water and directing it into the pot. “And the Director will drink anything as long as it’s brewed strong enough.”

“Oh,” said Credence. It was strange to think that there were people who knew Percival better than he did in some ways. Credence _knew_ Percival. He knew that Percival was righteous and just, a warrior who would keep fighting no matter what, because it was the right thing to do. He knew that Percival’s heart was bigger than the sky, and that Percival could be warm and tender even when they weren’t in bed together. He knew that Percival was _safe_ in every way that mattered; that Credence’s heart was safe with him, as was their son, and that no matter what happened, Percival would never raise a hand against him.

But he didn’t know everyday Percival: all the little things that made up who he was when he was free. He didn’t know whether Percival preferred tea or coffee, or how he took either when he drank them. He didn’t know what Percival’s favorite anything was, whether it was a color or food or clothing. He didn’t know what Percival was like as a free man, but God willing, he had time to find out.

Please God, give him the time to find out. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Percival.

Credence found a tray to put the teapot and mugs on. He wished he had something to offer their guests. The church hadn’t had many visitors, but Ma always made sure to have a little something for them to nibble on. It was usually just bread, plain and ordinary by their guests’ standards; they probably had no idea that even that meager offering meant that Ma’s family would have to go without.

Next time, he told himself. He’d be better prepared for guests next time. He’d make sure of that.

He brought the tea back into the living room again. Percival and Newt seemed to have moved past high society formality and into an animated conversation about someone they both knew. Credence suspected they were talking about Theseus.

“Is that what he told you?” Newt asked, eyes sparkling with laughter. “That’s not how that happened _at all.”_

“He jumped out a window,” Percival said, equal parts incredulous and delighted. “Theseus fucking Scamander _jumped out a window_ rather than face down an amorous nineteen year old.”

“There are apparently limits to my brother’s fearless nature,” Newt said dryly.

“Why didn’t he Apparate?” asked Percival.

“He was worried he’d splinch himself by accident,” explained Newt.

“Hah!” said Percival. He took the tea tray from Credence and looked smug. “Theseus doesn’t know how to deal with amorous junior Aurors,” he told Credence. His tone suggested he was going to hold this over Theseus’ head for the next decade or so.

Credence blinked. “Are amorous junior Aurors a problem?”

“Er,” said Tina. She blushed when both Percival and Newt turned interested looks on her. “I wouldn’t say it’s a _problem,_ exactly. It’s just … one of those things that happens. There’s a bingo square for it and everything.”

“I beg your pardon?” Newt asked.

“Which square?” Percival demanded.

“What’s a bingo square?” Credence asked.

“Mercy Lewis,” said Tina, looking very much like she wished she’d never opened her mouth at all. “Bingo is a game,” she told Credence. “The No-Maj’s play it kind of like a lottery. The goal is to get ‘bingo,’ which is five squares crossed out in a row. The Auror division plays something similar, except instead of randomly generated numbers, the squares have MACUSA rites of passage on them. You cross the squares off once you’ve hit whatever rite of passage they describe: throwing up when you see your first body, totally embarrassing yourself in front of a superior officer, getting hit with various jinxes, that sort of thing. It’s all in good fun. Your teammates generally take you out for drinks once you hit ‘bingo.’”

“So, it’s like a bet,” Credence said. Ma always said that only sinners gambled, but Tina made the Auror division’s version of bingo sound like fun. 

“It’s tradition,” said Percival. “Seraphina and I had a bet going to see who could hit the least embarrassing version of bingo the fastest.” He smirked. “I won.”

“Is Seraphina going to tell me the same thing if I ask her?” Credence asked.

“Yes,” Percival said, entirely without shame. “She’ll just be wrong.”

“Uh huh,” said Credence, who was starting to think he should take anything Percival and Seraphina said about one another with a grain of salt.

Percival fixed Tina with a stern look. “Don’t think I missed you avoiding which square amorous junior Aurors is,” he told her.

Tina huffed. “It’s not for amorous junior Aurors,” she said tartly. “This isn’t a penny dreadful romance novel, sir. And for your information, being smitten with you or President Picquery is the center square, because it happens to all of us sooner or later.”

“Being smitten,” said Percival. “With me or Seraphina.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tina.

“Is one of those things that _just happens?”_

Credence considered that. Percival was handsome and chivalrous, and if he was as kind to the junior Aurors as he was to Credence, it was easy to see why they might be smitten with him. It was harder for him to imagine being smitten with Seraphina; she was very pretty, but women weren’t to his taste and never had been. He supposed he might be smitten with her for being beautiful and powerful and utterly unobtainable, if he’d been the least bit interested in women.

“Yes,” said Tina. Her blush had faded, and she mostly looked pleased at her ability to render Percival speechless.

“I can see why,” Credence said, just to tease Percival.

Percival turned a betrayed look on him.

“Well,” Credence said. “I’m smitten with you. I can hardly blame anyone else for having good taste.”

“I can never look any of the junior Aurors in the eye, ever again,” Percival said.

“Not all of us were sweet on you,” Tina told him. Her tone added _you egomaniac,_ which made Credence snicker into his mug of ginger tea. “Some of us were sweet on President Picquery.” 

Credence suspected Tina had been one of the latter.

“Well,” said Newt, with a surprisingly mischievous smile. “Now I know how to make Theseus forgive me for telling you about Auror Sinclair.”

 _“Do not_ tell Theseus about Auror bingo, I beg of you,” said Percival.

“It’s only fair,” Newt pointed out.

Percival scowled and drank his tea like he had a personal grudge against it. 

“Can I get a copy of one of those bingo cards?” Newt asked Tina.

“Goldstein, I forbid you from giving him one,” Percival said instantly.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tina told Newt.

“This is blatant insubordination,” Percival said darkly.

“You’re not technically back at work yet, sir,” said Tina.

Credence couldn’t stifle his laugh at Percival’s exaggerated look of betrayal.

“I was going to partner you with Collins, to start,” Percival grumbled. “Now I’m going to partner you with Hughes.”

“I’m sure I’ll learn just as much from Auror Hughes as I would from Auror Collins,” Tina said cheerfully.

“Oh, definitely,” Percival agreed with a toothy smile. “It’s just the how you should be worried about.”

“Er,” Tina said again.

“Lunch?” Percival suggested. 

 

*

 

Goldstein waited until lunch was over to hand him a copy of the _New York Ghost._ She pulled him into the hallway with a cheerful, “Top secret MACUSA stuff, Aurors only!”

“Is it really top secret if you announce that it is?” Newt called back, making Credence snort with laughter.

“Yes!” Goldstein shot back, dragging Graves down the hall.

“What is this actually about, Goldstein?” Graves asked, bemused. 

Goldstein opened the nearest door and pushed him into it. She followed him in and shut the door firmly behind her. Graves would have been a lot happier about that, had the door she selected not led to a small closet.

“What the hell,” Graves said.

 _“Silencio,”_ said Goldstein, aiming her wand at the door.

Graves folded his arms across his chest. “Goldstein.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, apologetic. She took a deep breath. 

Graves really hoped that she wasn’t going to confess she had feelings for him, in light of her earlier revelations about Auror bingo. He didn’t think that she would – Goldstein was too sensible for that sort of thing, and he had a feeling Seraphina had been the reason she’d crossed that square off, not him – but he wasn’t honestly certain why she’d feel the need to shove him in a closet and cast a silencing spell otherwise.

“Here,” said Goldstein, handing him the paper.

 _Grindelwald Infiltrates MACUSA!_ read the headline.

 _Respected Director of Magical Security REPLACED_ read the subheader.

“Son of a _bitch,”_ said Graves. 

“I thought, maybe, if you need to speak to someone about this, Newt and I could stay with Credence,” Goldstein said, demonstrating why Graves had wanted her on his team to begin with. She was clever, Goldstein. And not afraid to trap herself in a small space with a predator after pulling a wampus cat by the tail, either.

Goldstein wrung her hands, clearly debating something. “The articles don’t mention Credence,” she said.

“Articles,” Graves repeated. _“Plural.”_ He was going to drop the editor-in-chief of the _New York Ghost_ off the top of the Woolworth building. Hell, maybe he’d just drop the entire editorial staff. It would be a learning experience for the new hires. 

“Er. Yes,” said Goldstein.

Graves growled under his breath. His name sold papers. He knew that. He and Seraphina had been front page fixtures when their careers had gotten started, but he’d mostly been relegated to the interior, except when a case had been particularly exciting. (Seraphina was still front page news, no matter what she did. Everything Madam President did was worth writing about.)

The _New York Ghost_ had been following Grindelwald’s rampage through Europe for months now, for much the same reason. Grindelwald was a newsman’s cash cow. Anything he did was worth writing about.

And if they were writing about high level MACUSA staffers being replaced? That wasn’t a cash cow, it was a gold mine.

Graves snarled. There was a leak. That was no surprise. Leaks were inevitable, given the number of people who knew what had happened. But if the articles hadn’t mentioned Credence … That meant that there was something else at play. Either the editor at the _Ghost_ was holding news of Credence in reserve, or someone at MACUSA was controlling the story.

Seraphina would have warned him, if this had been her play. That was how they _worked,_ the two of them. They trusted one another to have each other’s backs. 

It was possible that Seraphina _couldn’t_ warn him. He didn’t doubt that she was being watched, and until the special tribunal cleared him for active duty once more, he was a liability to her and MACUSA both.

If Seraphina wasn’t controlling the story, that meant it was someone whose scruples he didn’t trust. Someone who would use Credence for the sake of the story – for the sake of selling papers.

Someone who might be a threat to Graves’ family.

Graves took a deep breath and forced himself to let it go. He couldn’t lash out at the staff of the _Ghost,_ no matter how much he wanted to. If he did that, he would be no better than the animal Grindelwald liked to treat him as.

He had to be _better_ than that. He couldn’t risk Credence’s safety over a temper tantrum. 

You are the Head of Magical Law Enforcement in America, he reminded himself. Try and fucking act like it.

Graves pulled all his rage inward and made himself act like the man he’d been six months ago. Before Credence and their son.

Before Grindelwald.

That man had a duty to his junior Aurors – to teach and to guide them. To show them how to work the problem rather than leap to a bloody solution.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Goldstein blinked. “Sir?”

Graves waggled the paper at her. “Where’s our leak?”

To her credit, Goldstein actually thought about it before answering. “It could be from St. Brigid’s,” she said eventually. “Normally, I’d say it wasn’t, because the story didn’t break in time for you to be mobbed after you were discharged from the hospital. But that could have been deliberate, to avoid suspicion. There were a lot of people pretending to be nurses while you were there.”

Graves raised his eyebrows at her in silent inquiry. He’d known about the nurses. Dindrane and the Bluebird had both mentioned running a number of them off. He just hadn’t realized that Magical Security had done their fair share of it, too.

“Except they have details,” Goldstein continued, frowning. “There’s nothing about Credence, or his condition, which is suspicious all on its own. But one of the articles mentioned that Grindelwald starved you, and that you were being treated for injuries consistent with torture.”

Graves swallowed down another snarl of rage. He didn’t want Goldstein to think he was pissed at her. She was the only one who’d come out of this blameless, as far as he was concerned.

“Why would they do that?” he asked, trailing breadcrumbs. 

“I don’t –” Goldstein shut her mouth before she could finish that sentence. “For money, maybe,” she said. “Greed tends to be the universal motivator, doesn’t it?”

“Could be,” Graves acknowledged. When dealing with the average criminal, figuring out who benefitted financially was one of the fastest ways to solve a case. Of course, this wasn’t exactly like dealing with the average criminal. This was politics. “Why else? From an emotional standpoint.”

Goldstein shot him a frustrated look. Graves smiled blandly back. She was going to have to get used to these little teachable moments, if she was going to be on his team.

“For you,” she said. “To drum up sympathy for you. The articles don’t treat you like one of Grindelwald’s fanatics – they’re sympathetic. I thought maybe it was just because anything else would sound like they sympathize with Grindelwald, but maybe not.”

That was a possibility Graves himself hadn’t considered. It sounded rather more stalker-ish than he was comfortable with, but given the nurses at St. Brigid’s collective romance novel, it was one he ought to have thought of.

“Good work, Goldstein,” he murmured. “And if it wasn’t St. Brigid’s?”

Goldstein shook her head. “It wasn’t one of us. It _couldn’t_ be,” she said.

Graves waited. She was an Auror. She wasn’t _that_ naive. And after everything she’d been through – hell. Mosaku had very nearly murdered her, and Mosaku and Goldstein were colleagues, for fuck’s sake. She had to know that Grindelwald’s rot spread a lot farther than anyone had ever expected it to.

“Mercy Lewis,” Goldstein muttered. “It could have been anyone. President Picquery had the search teams out for blocks, after the cleanup was done. Half of Magical Security was in your kitchen the night we found you.” She looked horrified by the prospect.

“The editor-in-chief at the _Ghost_ hates Seraphina and me,” Graves said. That was actually something of an understatement. Graves was reasonably certain that John Donaldson wouldn’t cast _aguamenti_ if either of them were on fire and he was standing right next to them. The feeling was mutual. If Donaldson had been on fire, Graves would probably summon an accelerant. He hated petty, small-minded bigots. It didn’t help that Donaldson had always been one, all the way back to Ilvermorny. “He’s not going to give up his source, even if I could bring myself to ask nicely.”

Goldstein gave him a considering look. “Did you really break his nose?”

“On multiple occasions,” Graves said, looking back on the memories with fond smugness. Donaldson, like most pureblood American wizards, thought that physically fighting anyone was beneath him. 

“That … does not seem like something you’d do, sir,” Goldstein said, in lieu of asking if he’d lost his damn mind.

“I haven’t done it since I made Director of Magical Security,” Graves allowed. Mostly because Seraphina had made him promise not to, but Goldstein didn’t need to know that. “Brawling being one of those things that’s supposed to be beneath my dignity.” He rolled his eyes. He was a Graves. Fighting was in his nature. It was what he _did._ “But he’s always been an ass.”

“Alright,” Goldstein said. “So making inquiries at the _New York Ghost_ is out.”

“Making inquiries at the _New York Ghost_ is _always_ out, unless you’ve got a source of your own,” Graves said. He had a couple. Investigative reporters were good for a bit of quid pro quo – the chance to take a few really juicy crime scene photos always helped – but he’d been out of touch for too long. He wasn’t sure any of them would take his firecalls. And magic only knew what Grindelwald had done to his network, while he’d been wearing Graves’ face.

“I don’t,” Goldstein sighed. She paused, considering. “Queenie might, though.”

Graves bit back his instinctive response, which was to forbid Goldstein from getting Goldstein the Younger involved at all. Goldstein the Younger was every bit as clever as her sister, it seemed, and she had the will to follow through. He could do worse than having both of them in his corner.

“Tell her to be careful,” Graves commanded. “And that I’ll have Mr. Kowalski’s anti-Obliviation charm ready tomorrow.”

Goldstein beamed at him. “Yes, sir!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief mention of Credence's past re: Mary Lou and her abusive brand of parenting, but I don't think it will upset anyone. Message me on tumblr if you want more details before reading!
> 
> Grindelwald's quote is taken directly from the film.
> 
> The ingredients in Jacob's anti-Obliviation charm are based in part on the metaphysical associations for certain objects (rosemary and hematite) and perusing the HP wiki for potions ingredients that were associated with the mind. The dragonglass is a nod to GRRM's Game of Thrones, mostly because it sounds really freaking cool.

“Top secret MACUSA stuff, Aurors only!” said Tina, dragging Percival down the hall.

“Is it really top secret if you announce that it is?” Newt called back, good humor evident in his tone. 

“Yes!” Tina shouted back.

Credence snorted with laughter, because they were both right, in their own ways.

Newt waited until he heard a door click shut behind Percival and Tina. “Would you like to meet my creatures?” he asked, gesturing towards his suitcase.

“Could I?” Credence asked, delighted. “Would that be …” he made a vague hand gesture to his stomach, “... would it be alright?”

“Dougal is quite good with younglings and expectant mothers,” Newt told him.

Credence wasn’t sure who, or what, Dougal was, but he decided to take the endorsement for what it was. “I’d love to,” he said. “How do we get in, though? It’s just a suitcase.”

“Just a suitcase,” Newt murmured. “It has the finest undetectable expansion charms known to man on it.” He flicked the catches on the case and opened it up.

“Oh,” said Credence, who had no idea what that was.

Newt’s case didn’t _look_ like a suitcase. Credence had no experience with suitcases, but he was fairly certain they were supposed to contain things like clothes, and not a ladder descending into some unknown magical world.

“Follow me,” said Newt, stepping fearlessly into the suitcase and clambering down the ladder with ease.

Credence followed carefully, half-expecting to find a basement much like the one Mr. Grindelwald had kept him and Percival prisoner in.

The interior of Newt’s case smelled like animal musk and earth. It wasn’t an earthy smell Credence recognized – it didn’t smell like earth did anywhere in the city. It smelled primal and _wild,_ which made sense, Credence thought, looking around at animals he couldn’t even begin to _describe,_ much less name. The sun – which had barely passed noon, outside of Newt’s case – hung low and oppressively hot over the creatures, who didn’t seem bothered by the heat in the slightest.

“Come along,” Newt said briskly. “Everyone will be wanting a bit of dinner.”

“Alright,” Credence said, following Newt obediently. Newt showed him how to feed the mooncalves, which were strange looking creatures with big eyes and soft grey fur. They hopped excitedly on their funny flat feet when Credence tossed their food pellets to them. They were cute, Credence thought. Weird, but cute.

“Hello,” Newt crooned to a nestful of creatures that looked a little bit like snakes with wings. “Mummy’s here.”

They were, Credence realized, the inspiration for the pastry serpents the Bluebird was so fond of.

Then what Newt said sank in. 

He faltered, wondering if it was okay for wizards to use female titles, and for witches to use male ones. He wanted to ask – was his son supposed to call him Mama or Papa? But he’d only just met Newt. He had no idea whether or not Newt would welcome questions.

And, he realized, with slowly dawning horror. He was _alone_ with Newt, without Percival to intervene if Newt meant him harm.

Stupid, he told himself. 

“Credence?” Newt asked, turning back, concern plain on his freckled face. “You’ve gone white as a sheet. What’s the matter?” He reached for Credence.

Credence flinched. He couldn’t help it. A few months of kindness hadn’t erased a lifetime of harm. No good came of outstretched hands. Ma didn’t use her hands on him much anymore – she preferred the belt – but she’d raised her hand plenty to Modesty and Chastity.

Newt dropped his hand immediately, like he’d tried to touch something that burned. He dropped his gaze and hunched his shoulders.

Credence recognized what he was doing, because he’d done it himself. Newt was trying to make himself small – like _Credence_ was the scary one.

Maybe he was afraid of Percival. Except Percival said that the Scamander’s weren’t scared of hardly anything, amorous nineteen year old’s aside.

“Are you alright?” Newt asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” Credence said, feeling bad now. Was Newt like him? Had someone hurt him? Credence found he couldn’t bear that thought – that Newt was just waiting for the blow. The anticipation was almost worse than getting hit, sometimes. It used to make Credence sick to his stomach. It was better now, because he had Percival, but maybe Newt didn’t have someone like Percival in his life.

Maybe Tina could be Newt’s Percival. She was an Auror, like Percival, and clearly protective of the people she considered hers. Newt could do a lot worse than Tina.

“Are _you_ okay?” Credence asked. He wanted to tell Newt that he wasn’t going to hurt him, but he knew Newt wouldn’t believe it. Not if Newt was like him. _He_ hadn’t believed it, not for weeks and weeks.

“I’m fine,” Newt assured him, his voice calm and reassuring. He glanced up at Credence’s face, and whatever he found there must have reassured him enough to straighten up and make eye contact again. “Let’s get you some tea, shall we? Tea fixes everything.”

“It does?” Credence asked, startled. No one had mentioned magic tea so far. If there was a version of ginger tea that worked like Bessie’s Baby Balm, Credence had some _very_ strong words for Mr. Grindelwald. (He had some very strong words for Mr. Grindelwald regardless. He thought, maybe, if he ever saw Mr. Grindelwald again, he’d even say them out loud.)

“It does if you’re English,” Newt assured him. “It’s a cultural thing,” he explained. “Putting the kettle on is soothing – something normal, no matter what’s happened.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He hadn’t thought magical people would _need_ something ordinary and soothing. “I’d like some tea, then.”

Newt made him spicy tea – “it’s called chai; it’s from India” – and kindly diluted it with milk that Credence suspected had not come from anything as ordinary as a cow, until only a hint of spice remained. It was good, whatever it was. 

“Newt?” Tina called, poking her head out of the little gatehouse with its staircase away from Newt’s hidden world. “Oh, sir, you don’t need to come down here.”

“I am starting to think there’s something down here you don’t want me to see, Goldstein,” Percival said, sounding more amused than irritated.

“Er,” said Tina, who looked very much like she wanted to throw herself between Percival and the rest of Newt’s case.

Percival stopped and just stared at everything for a second, taking it all in. Newt’s case must have been really magical, Credence thought, if even Percival hadn’t seen anything like it before.

“Ah,” said Percival. “Now I understand. I don’t suppose you have permits for any of these creatures?” he inquired.

“Not exactly,” Newt said. “They’re wild animals. I don’t _own_ them.”

Percival muttered something under his breath. Credence suspected it was a swear word.

“I’m going to kill Theseus,” Percival announced.

Newt startled, hazel eyes going very round. “Why do you want to kill my brother?”

“Because he’s the fucking head of English MLE, and he’s been letting you wander around with all of this –” Percival gestured to the case and its contents “– unsanctioned and unpermitted. That’s just _sloppy._ Theseus should know better.

“Permits,” Percival continued, “are required for magical creatures because they are dangerous.”

Credence wondered if the laws about magical animals were like Rappaport’s Law: laws that were wrong and unfair and unjust.

Maybe that could be the next thing he and Tina changed, once they were done with Rappaport’s Law.

“Only because people don’t understand them!” Newt protested. “That’s why I’m writing my book.”

Percival folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “If you’re going to be some kind of creature expert, then you ought to set a better example,” he said. “You need permits, which will acknowledge that your creatures are dangerous, but also that you are qualified to handle them. 

“If you don’t want to domesticate your creatures, that’s fine. But don’t let your ideals blind you. Declaring ownership makes them your property, and _that_ gives you legal recourse in the event that your case is confiscated or impounded. A _good_ lawyer can parlay that into a conditional release on bail, which will keep the legal authorities from destroying the creatures you so want to protect. A _great_ lawyer will look at your declaration of ownership and multinational permits – it’s always good to file permits with different nations; it keeps everything above board no matter where you are – and spin that into a nightmare of international case law that will make your creatures untouchable. If you don’t have a great lawyer, I’d be happy to recommend one.”

Newt stared at him.

Tina patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I know,” she told him. “He has this effect on everyone. This is why he and Madam President have the center square.”

Credence wondered whether or not Newt would cross that square off, if Tina gave him a bingo card of his own, rather than one he could show his brother. He thought maybe Newt would.

That thought didn’t make him feel as jealous as he thought it would. Percival was _his_ fiancé; Credence carried their son beneath his heart. He trusted Percival not to stray. Even if, Credence admitted to himself, Newt was the sort of man that he would have thought of guiltily, before he’d met Percival. Newt was lovely and kind, and Credence suspected that even the Bible would sound pretty in Newt’s accent.

“Did you,” Newt began, and stopped, like he couldn’t quite wrap his head around his question. “Did you just give me _advice_ on how to get around magical law enforcement?”

“No,” Percival said instantly, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I advised you about your legal rights, with a stern reprimand on the importance of proper permitting. What you do with that information is up to you.”

Newt started laughing, incredulous and a little disbelieving. “Right,” he said. “I suddenly find myself _very_ glad that there’s an ocean between you and my brother.”

“Oh?” Percival inquired.

“Merlin, yes,” said Newt. “I can’t decide what would be more terrifying: you as Theseus’ deputy director, or Theseus as yours.”

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” said Percival. “No. Absolutely not. I had enough of squad leader Scamander during the war, thank you very much. There is no way I could work for your brother. He’s a _lunatic.”_

“I thought your brother was a war hero,” Tina said. “One of the ICW delegates said that’s what he was.”

“Theseus Scamander _is_ a hero,” Percival said.

“So are you,” Credence pointed out. “You said you had a medal and everything.”

Tina’s expression shifted to surprise. “I didn’t know you were a war hero, sir.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Percival said dryly.

“An Order of Merlin, First Class, is nothing to scoff at,” Newt pointed out.

Credence suspected, judging from the way Tina’s eyes went big and round, that an Order of Merlin, First Class was not the sort of medal they passed out to just anyone, no matter what Percival said.

Percival cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Theseus is a hero _and_ a lunatic,” he said. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. He’s reckless and prone to running headfirst into the sort of thing that would get any other wizard killed, except he’s good enough at what he does to survive it unscathed. I spent my first couple weeks on the other side of the pond convinced he had an illegal _felix felicis_ habit.”

Newt burst into delighted laughter.

 _“Felix felicis_ is a good luck potion,” Percival told Credence. “It’s difficult to brew, and it’s classified as a Restricted Potion because it makes you lucky, for short periods of time. Anything that you attempt after drinking it will be successful.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “There’s a variant of it for fertility,” he added. “You blew up the bottle after dinner.”

The potion that tasted like liquid spring, Credence realized. One hand went to his stomach, unbidden. “I don’t think my good luck has worn off yet,” he murmured.

Percival’s expression went predatory at that, all heat and hunger. It smoothed into a bland expression a second later, but Tina and Newt had already seen it, if their red faces were any indicator.

“I think it’s time we went home, Newt,” Tina said hastily.

It would be unkind to laugh, Credence thought. But he found the laughter bubbling up anyway, even as his own face went red with embarrassment. 

“Right,” Newt said determinedly. “I’ll just stay down here then, shall I?”

“Good plan,” said Tina, very carefully not looking at either Percival or Credence. She practically flew up the ladder. Credence started up after her and stopped once he realized that looking up also meant looking at Tina’s backside, which didn’t seem respectful.

Percival, Credence noticed, followed _him_ up the ladder, and he was _definitely_ looking at Credence’s backside. 

“Thank you for lunch,” Tina blurted, still not looking at either of them. “And for the advice. That was kind of you, sir. I’ll stop by tomorrow, for the anti-Obliviation charm. Bye!” She scooped up Newt’s case and all the wonders it held, and practically bolted out the door.

“At some point,” Credence told Percival, “you’re going to have to stop embarrassing poor Tina like that.”

“Goldstein’s a grown woman,” Percival protested. “She ought to be able to handle two wizards in love.”

“It would be one thing if we were just two wizards in love,” Credence said tartly, secretly delighted by the admission of love, “but you’re her _boss._ And, anyways, it isn’t appropriate. Our private lives should be displayed _privately.”_

“So proper,” Percival said mournfully.

“Not proper enough,” Credence said, thinking about what Tina had said – that Percival and Newt were wizarding high society. “Is there a book?” he asked. “On wizarding high society etiquette?”

“What?” asked Percival.

“How to act,” Credence clarified. “So I don’t insult anyone.”

“Wizards have the same manners as No-Maj’s, most of the time,” Percival said. _“Your_ manners are exquisite, especially when compared to mine.”

Credence folded his arms across his chest. “It was like you were speaking another language, earlier,” he said. “Sometimes I think wizards speak a different dialect from ordinary folk, but all that stuff you said to Newt about House Graves and House Scamander – Tina said you were wizarding high society.”

Percival’s expression suggested that Tina was going to regret sharing that little tidbit with him.

Credence poked him. “Don’t be mad at Tina,” he said sternly. “I asked.”

Percival grumbled something rude under his breath, and deflated a little.

“There’s different rules, aren’t there?” Credence asked. “For people like you. I want – I _need_ to know what the rules are, Percival. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“You could never,” Percival said, voice low and warm.

“If I’m going to be your husband, I need to be able to move in your world,” Credence said. “Like Mr. Kowalski.”

Percival sighed and gave in. “There are books,” he said. “Very, very boring books. I’ll see if I can’t find copies of them. There must be a dozen or so at the Manor House.”

“The what?” Credence asked.

“Er,” said Percival. He sighed again. “The Manor House,” he repeated. “Graves Manor – the Graves family’s ancestral home – is located in upstate New York. Dindrane and I were raised there. We generally only use it for parties these days, but the library there is extensive.”

“Ancestral home,” Credence repeated. He was, admittedly, picturing some kind of castle, but he did not think he could be blamed for that. Just how wealthy _was_ the Graves family, if they could afford jewels to welcome new blood and to buy safe houses at the drop of a hat?

“I’ll take you there,” Percival said. “When this is all over.”

“I’d like that,” Credence said. “I’d like to see where you grew up.”

“Don’t believe anything the portraits tell you,” Percival said.

Credence suspected that meant that the portraits knew embarrassing stories about Percival’s childhood and decided he was going to sit at their feet and ask them questions _all day long._

“Wait, the portraits _talk?”_ he asked, amazed. At some point, Credence thought, he was going to stop being dazzled by all the wonders Percival’s world had to offer, but he didn’t think that day was going to happen anytime soon.

“Wizarding portraits do,” Percival said. “A talented painter can imbue the painting with their subject’s energy. It’s like having a recording of them. Some people don’t like them, because they consider portraits pale echoes of the people they once were, but others take comfort from them. Those we love may be gone, but they’ll never be forgotten. It’s a way to keep them with us.”

Percival was careful to keep his explanation neutral, but that in itself was a red flag. 

“You don’t like them, do you?” he asked.

“No,” Percival admitted. “I don’t. My father … he has a portrait. I can’t bear the sight of it and it knows it. It sounds like him, but it _isn’t._ It’s just an echo. I’d destroy it if I could, but it’s the only way his grandchildren will ever know him. I can’t take that from them. From _him,”_ he said, reaching out to rest a hand against Credence’s belly and using his magic to say hello to the baby.

Credence took advantage of Percival’s hand on his belly to drag Percival into a hug, trying to offer what comfort he could.

“We should do something about supper,” he said.

“Excellent plan,” said Percival.

 

*

 

“There are two kinds of magical objects,” Graves told Credence after dinner, conjuring up a workbench outside in the back garden. “The first is an ordinary object which, after constant exposure to magic, becomes magical itself.” He passed Credence his wand. “Mind giving me some light to work by?”

 _“Lumos,”_ said Credence, with a textbook perfect flick of Graves’ wand. He strung the balls of light all around Graves’ workbench, beaming as he handed the wand back to Graves.

Hilt first, Graves noticed, as was proper.

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “I told you that you had nothing to worry about, as far as manners go,” he said.

Credence gave him the politely puzzled look that had been his version of a frown, not too long ago. Graves suspected it was Credence’s _humoring the crazy person_ look now. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Graves nodded to the wand. “Why are you handing it to me hilt first?” 

“Because that’s how you gave it to me,” Credence said, the politely puzzled look starting to give way to an actual frown.

“In the old days,” Graves told him, “handing someone your wand – any wand, really – hilt first was a sign of trust. Like handing over a sword, or a knife, or any other kind of weapon. It’s meant to demonstrate that you trust the other person enough to not use it against you, and to signal that handing over your wand is an act of parlay. A truce,” he clarified.

“Oh,” said Credence. He made a face. “I still need the books, though. I didn’t _know_ any of that. I was only doing it because it’s what _you_ did.”

“And that right there is why I’m not worried about your manners,” Graves said. “You’re observant as hell and you’re _smart.”_

Credence glowed quietly under the praise. Then he put on a stern expression – he was getting better at that, a little; Graves thought the current version might have intimidated a puppy – and said, “Thank you. But I still _want_ the books.”

“Alright,” Graves said. “Back to the matter at hand, then: magical objects. The second type is an object that is, itself, magic.”

“Like a wand,” Credence guessed.

“Like a wand,” Graves agreed. “For the most part, a magical object is just that - an object. Little, ordinary things that fulfill one or two basic functions. Preserving one’s memories, for instance. There are other kinds of magical objects that are considered objects of power. Arthur’s Grail, for one. In England, there are whispers of a stone that will let you cheat death, but it hasn’t been seen in years. I always wanted to try and find it, when I was a boy. I thought it would be a grand adventure.”

“You still could,” Credence pointed out. 

“No, I couldn’t,” Graves said. “I gave up on that dream ages ago. _You’re_ my grand adventure, now. I’d much rather have you.”

Credence went very red, but Graves thought he looked pleased, beneath the embarrassment. 

“Most Aurors prefer to purchase pre-made magical objects. It’s not that making them is especially difficult, if you have the right pieces to put one together, but you’re more likely to achieve consistent results if everyone’s using the same tools.” Graves paused to give Credence a roguish grin. “But what’s the point of having a magical researcher in the family if you can’t get them to make you something _better.”_

Dindrane had tweaked the existing anti-Obliviation charm a little. Her version of it was smoother and less showy than the traditional one. If Mr. Kowalski was careful and feigned Obliviation, no one would be the wiser.

Graves combined the component parts. First was the dragonglass, which would act as a foundation for the spell. Powdered hematite, which would absorb the Obliviation spell and render it harmless. Runespoor eggs for the mind, and rosemary and snowdrops for remembrance.

One by one, the dragonglass drew them all in, undulating red and gold as the spell took shape.

 _“Concustudio memoriae,”_ Graves said, pouring magic into the spell. He couldn’t afford to half-ass this.

The dragonglass pulsed and contracted, taking shape. Graves held out one hand and caught it before it could hit the table.

It was a pocket watch. It was clean and simple, and the dials only told the time, rather than a threat level. On the face of the watch, a woman’s crown was painted where the manufacturers logo usually went.

“Hah,” said Graves, pleased by the absurdity of it. “Queenie’s No-Maj, indeed.”

 

*

 

Dindrane had thoughtfully included three whole bottles of Bessie’s Baby Balm and several books on wizarding pregnancies. Credence curled up on the couch with a copy of _Expecting the Unexpected: a Guide for the Pregnant Wizard_ while Graves poured over the case files Seraphina had copied for him. It was pleasantly domestic – the kind of quiet evening Graves used to think wistfully about sometimes, whenever he had a mountain of paperwork to deal with and only a glass of whiskey for company. It was nice, he thought, to have someone to share the silence with.

Graves paused over Seraphina’s statement, after that last confrontation with Grindelwald. 

_A law that has us scuttling like rats in the gutter,_ Grindelwald had said. He hadn’t meant Rappaport’s Law. He’d meant the International Statute of Secrecy. Grindelwald had made it clear that he considered himself above such things. _A law that demands we conceal our true nature. A law that directs those under its dominion to cower in fear, lest we risk discovery. I ask you, Madam President, I ask all of you, who does this law protect? Us? Or them? I refuse to bow down any longer._

He was persuasive man, Grindelwald. It was one of the things that made him so terrifying. 

Grindelwald wasn’t insane, despite the numerous accusations to the contrary Graves had flung at him over the course of being Grindelwald’s prisoner. Grindelwald wanted to build a better world for wizardkind, and the thing that made him dangerous was his willingness to do whatever it took to accomplish that goal. There was no bargaining with fanatics.

Grindelwald justified his atrocities by telling himself that they were for the _greater good._ He meant to make the world a better place for wizards the whole world over, unrestricted by the petty concerns of nationality or loyalty. He meant to make the world _safe_ for wizards by making sure that they would never need to fear the No-Maj’s ever again.

That was the crux of it, Graves thought. Fear.

In America, a healthy wariness where the No-Maj’s were concerned was normal. It didn’t matter that they were generations away from Salem, and that there were no more Scourers to betray them. The No-Maj’s outnumbered wizards in America, and it paid to remember that the No-Maj’s weren’t _stupid._ They found plenty of ways to even the playing ground, for all their lack of magic. If it hadn’t been for Newt and his Swooping Evil venom, Graves might even now find himself fighting a very different kind of war.

He might still wind up fighting one, if Grindelwald got his way. Grindelwald spread fear everywhere he went, and fear was one of the fastest paths to war.

Why, though? What did Grindelwald find so terrifying about the No-Maj’s? Europe wasn’t like America. They’d left the Burning Times behind them, relegated to the past where such atrocities belonged.

It was all too easy to fear the things you didn’t understand, Graves knew. He’d seen the aftermath of what happened when frightened, foolish people lashed out at what they didn’t understand more times than he cared to admit to.

And what wizard really understood a No-Maj? Even in places like England, where wizards and No-Maj’s _could_ intermarry, Graves didn’t think that very many wizards really understood how the No-Maj world worked. Why should they? They could make their problems go away with a literal wave of their wands. A little Obliviation and no one would ever be the wiser.

So why was Grindelwald afraid of them? And was his fear personal or practical? 

It would be one thing, Graves thought, if Grindelwald’s fear of No-Maj’s was based in personal experience. Personal fear was deep-seated and irrational, and that irrationality could be used against him. But if Grindelwald’s fear was based in more practical concerns – like the fact that No-Maj’s outnumbered wizards at a ratio of between nineteen and twenty-seven to one, worldwide, with the ratio skewing further in their favor every year – well. That was a kettle of very different fish entirely.

Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights, it was just so fucking _frustrating._ Graves had spent more time in Grindelwald’s company than anyone, and he _still_ didn’t know what made the man tick.

Credence shifted, drawing Graves out of his thoughts. 

“Credence?” he asked, closing the file he hadn’t really been looking at anyway.

Credence bit his lip, his left hand coming to rest, protective, over the gentle swell of his stomach. His expression was clearly focused inward, on their son.

Was something wrong?

Graves reached for him, covering Credence’s hand with his own, offering up his own magic on instinct.

Credence beamed at him, bright and delighted and so fucking beautiful it made Graves’ heart hurt to look at him. 

“This says I’ll be able to feel him move soon,” Credence announced. “Like butterflies.”

“Oh,” Graves said, feeling a little stunned stupid. Credence’s slowly expanding stomach was already tangible proof of their son – of the future Graves never thought he’d have. He couldn’t describe why it was different, to know that Credence would be able to feel their son move soon. It did, though. It felt more real.

He reshrank the files with a careless wave of his hand, unable to focus on anything but Credence. He dragged Credence into his lap, ignoring Credence’s startled flailing.

“Percival!” Credence protested.

“I love you,” Graves said helplessly, cupping the back of Credence’s neck and scritching in the way that was guaranteed to make Credence go boneless and limp. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

Credence pressed his forehead against Graves’ and smiled. “I love you too.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should make it pretty clear that what I know about legal proceedings would fit in a thimble, and have clearly learned from watching too many terrible police procedurals.

Tina stopped by on her way to work this morning, while Credence was “helping” Percival prepare breakfast. Percival was cooking wandlessly, letting Credence practice the spell to make toast with his wand.

“Helping” was a bit of an exaggeration on Percival’s part, seeing as what Credence was _actually_ doing was setting pieces of bread on fire.

“I could just use a toasting fork,” he said. “This is wasteful.”

“You’re learning,” Percival said. “A little waste is perfectly fine.”

Credence gave his pile of blackened bread a disapproving look. He’d ruined nearly a quarter of a loaf. That might not have been a big deal to Percival, but that much bread would have gone a long way back at the church.

“You mastered _lumos_ and _modestum solis_ just fine,” Percival pointed out, mistaking his disapproval for discouragement. “Wandlessly, even. You’ll get this too.”

Tina sighed, a little envious. “I can’t cast anything without a wand,” she said. “You’re going to be powerful.”

Credence had his doubts about that, but it was nice of Tina to say so.

“It’d be easier if you had your own wand, though,” Tina added. “You should really take him to see Mr. Quintana, sir. Or Mr. Jonker.”

Percival made a noise of agreement, focused on dishing up scrambled eggs and sausages. It didn’t _look_ like he was actually listening to Tina at all.

He was, though. Of course he was. Percival paid attention to everything.

“Breakfast, Goldstein?”

“Er,” said Tina, fidgeting uncomfortably. “No, thank you,” she said politely. “I’ve already eaten.”

Percival fixed her with a look that suggested he knew exactly what Tina had had for breakfast, and also that it did not match _his_ definition of a proper meal in the slightest. It was a very expressive look.

Percival was going to be a very good father, Credence thought. Especially during their son’s teenage years. He’d clearly gotten a lot of practice on the junior Aurors.

Tina fidgeted.

Percival waited.

“You’re my boss,” Tina said, giving in. She gave Credence a pleading look. “And you’re making me _breakfast._ It’s weird.”

“You’re an Auror, you should be used to weird,” Percival said mercilessly. He skinned and cored an apple with a careless flick of his wrist and placed the slices on a plate in front of Credence. The honey pot landed next to them a second later.

“Is there a bingo square for this?” Credence asked Tina, pitching his voice low enough that Percival could pretend to ignore them if he wanted to. Percival did, although he made a face that suggested he had not yet forgotten that he and Seraphina occupied the center square and still wasn’t certain how he felt about that.

Credence wondered if Tina would give him a bingo card too, if only to give him something to tease Percival with. He was pretty sure she would.

“There’s a bingo square for weird,” Tina admitted. “But it’s case specific weird, not _weird_ weird.”

“It’s breakfast,” grumbled Percival. “Breakfast isn’t weird.”

Tina gave him a flat look of disbelief. “And I suppose the Director of Magical Security made _you_ breakfast when you were the most junior member of Major Investigations,” she said tartly.

“Breakfast is a little weird,” Percival conceded.

Tina took a righteous bite of her toast and said nothing.

Percival’s lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but didn’t want to spoil Tina’s fun. Credence hid his own smile behind his mug of tea. He made a face and set it down. Ginger tea was lovely, but it did not go with eggs and sausage and toast. Percival nudged the orange juice towards him instead, and Credence took it with a grateful smile.

“I have Mr. Kowalski’s anti-Obliviation charm,” Percival said, rising to fetch the pocket watch he’d made last night.

It looked like a perfectly ordinary pocket watch, to Credence’s eyes. He had to concentrate very carefully to catch even the faintest hint of magic on it. If he hadn’t watched Percival make it from fantastic, nonsensical ingredients himself, he might have believed that it was as ordinary as it seemed.

Tina took it with a grateful smile. _“Thank you,_ sir,” she said. “I should get to work, though.”

“Finish your eggs,” Percival said mildly. “Queenie will get mad at you if you have hot dogs for lunch again.”

Tina made a face. “I think Grindelwald ruined hot dogs for me.”

Credence and Percival both stared at her. Credence wondered if Mr. Grindelwald had tried to control what Tina ate, the way he had with the two of them.

Hot dogs, he had to admit, did not seem like the sort of fare Mr. Grindelwald would enjoy partaking in. They were too American, for one thing, and too common for another.

“What the hell, Goldstein,” Percival said eventually.

“I had a hot dog for lunch the day Newt arrived in New York,” Tina said. “And then after I arrested him, I took him to Major Investigations. President Picquery sent me packing, but Grindelwald caught me at the elevator and used one of your handkerchiefs to dab a bit of mustard I’d missed away. It was …” Tina considered and discarded several adjectives and settled on, “awkward.”

“Er,” said Percival. He looked like he was trying to imagine this, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Credence was having some trouble picturing it himself. Mostly because he kept seeing Mr. Grindelwald looming over Tina with a handkerchief, which couldn’t possibly have happened because he was pretending to be Percival.

He tried to picture Percival treating Tina like a toddler and failed miserably. Percival treated Tina like an equal. He’d have passed her a handkerchief, made a vague gesture at his own face, and wandered off to let Tina take care of it in private rather than embarrass her like that.

“And, anyway, Jacob’s been making lunch,” Tina continued, destroying the lingering awkwardness. “I think he feels like he needs to earn his keep.”

“A man’s got his pride,” Percival said mildly.

“Horsefeathers,” said Tina.

Credence couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled up at Percival’s affronted expression. He doubted Percival was used to having his opinions dismissed quite so thoroughly.

“He makes Queenie smile,” Tina continued. “He doesn’t need to do anything else to earn his keep.”

Credence wondered if Queenie knew just how fiercely her sister loved her. He hoped she did.

Tina shoveled an impressive amount of eggs and sausage into her mouth, and washed it down with coffee. “I really should be getting to work, though. Thank you for breakfast, sir. It was good seeing you again, Credence. I’ll bring you some books on Rappaport’s Law the next time I stop by.”

“I’d like that,” Credence told her.

Tina was as good as her word. She brought him half a dozen books two days later, clutching Newt’s case in one hand and wearing a dark expression.

“Goldstein,” Percival said, instantly going on the alert. He looked like he half expected Mr. Grindelwald to appear and try and attack him right there on their front porch.

Tina passed him a newspaper.

“That _son of a bitch,”_ snarled Percival. He had a lot more to say on that vein, using the sort of language that would have had Ma reaching for the soap as well as the belt. Credence was honestly a little surprised that blue lightning wasn’t coming out of Percival’s mouth right now; he was cursing that furiously.

“I’m going to slit him open and feed him his own fucking entrails,” Percival concluded, trembling faintly with rage. “He _dares_ write this – this _libel_ about my team. _My_ fucking team. As if any of them were to blame for not noticing Grindelwald was wearing my life like a suit.” He bit off whatever he wanted to say next in favor of the angry rumbling growl that usually meant he was thinking about Mr. Grindelwald.

“There’s still no mention of Credence,” Tina said carefully.

Percival snarled, a wordless animal sound of rage.

“Why would I be in the newspaper?” Credence asked. “I’m no one special. I’m barely even a wizard.”

Tina winced.

“Because you’re mine,” Percival said. Snarled, really. His rage would have been terrifying, if he’d been anyone but Percival.

Percival wouldn’t hurt him.

“The Graves name sells papers,” Percival explained. “Partly because we’re descended from one of the Twelve and we still carry on the family business, and partly because I’m the Head of MLE and Seraphina’s right hand man. They usually leave me alone – I’m not that interesting – but high level MACUSA officials being replaced by genocidal terrorists is the sort of thing that sells a lot of papers.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Donaldson’s going to have a field day writing about you,” he continued. “You’re half my age, gorgeous and carrying my child. The libel practically writes itself.”

Credence folded his arms across his chest and didn’t try to hide his outrage. “I don’t see how our personal lives are anyone else’s business.”

“That’s because you’re not a scum-sucking bottom feeder,” said Percival. “I’m going to punch Donaldson’s teeth down his throat,” he added, sounding like he was looking forward to that.

Tina winced again. “That’s not the worst of it,” she said.

“I know,” said Percival. “You wouldn’t have brought Newt here, otherwise.”

“I brought Queenie and Jacob, too,” Tina admitted.

Percival went very still. It was the sort of stillness that Credence suspected was the prelude to a whole lot of very efficient violence.

“You brought back-up,” said Percival. “Smart. Now tell me why.”

Tina reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. She extended it to Percival with shaking hands. “The Special Tribunal has summoned you,” she said.

 

*

 

“I don’t understand,” Credence said, following Graves into their bedroom. “What is the Special Tribunal and why have they summoned you? Why does this matter so much?”

Graves yanked his shirt off and reached for a proper white cotton button-down. “The Special Tribunal was created to judge my actions,” he said. “To determine the extent of my collaboration with Grindelwald.”

“Collaboration!” Credence yelped, indignant. “Mr. Grindelwald _tortured_ you. You didn’t collaborate with him at all!”

“I fed Grindelwald information,” Graves said, merciless. “I told him how to fool MACUSA into believing that he was me. The Special Tribunal has the right to judge me for that.” He’d always known that it would come to this.

“Bullshit,” said Credence. Graves half-expected him to look scandalized by the swear word, but Credence looked righteously pissed off instead.

“No one has the right to judge you for what you did to make sure everyone else survived Mr. Grindelwald,” Credence said. “No one, do you hear me? You did what you had to in order to keep your people _safe._ The Special Tribunal – whoever they are – has no right to judge you for any of it.”

“I’m not worried,” Graves lied. “Seraphina has my back. She won’t let them hurt me.”

There were some things, of course, that even Madam President could not prevent. His execution might well be one of them. He didn’t think it would come to that, but there was a very real possibility that the Special Tribunal might declare him a danger to MACUSA and have him fired.

Getting fired would have been a fate worse than death, before Credence.

Credence batted Graves’ hands away and buttoned Graves’ shirt for him. He lingered over the top button before pulling Graves into a fierce, possessive kiss. Then he bit Graves’ bottom lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood but definitely hard enough to get Graves’ attention.

“Ow,” Graves protested.

Credence stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t like it when you lie to me,” he said. “You don’t need to shelter me from the truth. I’m your partner, remember?”

“I wasn’t –”

“Percival.”

Graves gave up. “Maybe I was trying to shelter you a little,” he conceded. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“You’ve been summoned by a Special Tribunal who think that you _collaborated_ with Mr. Grindelwald,” Credence said flatly. “I’m already worried.”

Graves wanted to pull Credence into his arms and tell him not to worry, but Credence’s expression suggested more biting might be on the table if he did.

Fuck. Now was _not_ the time to think about how much he liked the thought of that. Not the biting itself – although he suspected that would be the stuff of fantasies given the right context – but Credence being possessive. Of wearing Credence’s marks on his skin, and having the chance to mark him up in return: to warn everyone else that Credence was taken.

Graves made a mental note to stop by a jewelry store sometime soon. He wanted to find out what Credence would look like draped in sapphires and silver.

“I’m worried too,” he admitted. “Any collaboration I committed was under duress, so they can’t convict me for it, but they _can_ strip me of my position and declare me a danger to MACUSA.”

“They’d be stupid to fire you,” Credence pointed out. “You’re their best chance for dealing with Mr. Grindelwald’s mess. I’ve half a mind to tell them that myself.”

_“You_ are staying right here in this safe house,” Graves said.

The pillows on their bed exploded.

“You can’t keep me prisoner here, Percival,” Credence said, batting feathers away from his face.

“You’re not a prisoner,” Graves protested. “You’re _safe_ here, behind wards I trust. With _people_ I trust. And besides, the Special Tribunal didn’t summon you. They already have your statement.”

“Then get them to make an exception,” Credence snapped. “I am not some delicate princess you need to keep locked up in a tower – I’m your partner!”

“Fuck,” said Graves. “Do you really think that’s what I think of you? Credence, you’re the strongest person I know. You and him – you’re my entire fucking world, alright? And I can’t lose you. I _can’t._ I’m not strong enough to come back from that. Right now, I don’t know who at MACUSA I can trust. I don’t know if Grindelwald got a toehold in my department – with _my_ people – and I don’t know if his fanatics are gunning for me. All I know is that it will kill me if you get caught in the crossfire. So please, _please_ let me keep you safe a little while longer.”

Credence’s shoulders slumped as the anger drained out of him. “Damn it, Percival,” he sighed. “All of that will still be true tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be better prepared,” Graves said. He thought he could cast a shield charm like the one Grindelwald had. It would be better if he were physically stronger and not just magically, but Credence was worth the risk.

“We’re not done talking about this, either,” Credence continued.

“I know,” Graves said.

Credence handed him a black waistcoat and tie. The waistcoat, like his shirt, fit badly. Graves had lost a lot of muscle mass during his time as Grindelwald’s prisoner. Dindrane had bought clothes for the man he’d been, not the one he was now.

Graves hoped like hell one of the Goldstein sisters knew a good tailoring charm. Right now he felt a little bit like he was playing dress up in his own damn clothes.

Credence brushed the feathers out of Graves’ hair and straightened his collar.

Graves had never let a lover dress him before. Usually, he was more focused on getting them _out_ of their clothes than into them. It felt startlingly right with Credence, the way that having someone to share the silence with as he reviewed case files had. He vaguely remembered his mother helping his father into his coat before his father Apparated to work.

“We’ll talk more when I get home,” he promised.

“I’m going to talk,” Credence corrected. “You’re going to listen.”

"Fair enough,” Graves said, stealing a kiss. He tugged Credence out of their bedroom and back into the living room, where the Goldstein sisters and their entourage were waiting. “Does anyone know a decent tailoring charm?” he asked.

“I can help,” said Queenie. She tsked over the fit of Graves’ clothes, tailoring them with a quick flick of her wand. She charmed his plain white button-down to a heavier fabric, the weight of it clinging to his skin. It felt like armor.

Graves caught sight of himself in the mirror. It looked like armor, too. Queenie had charmed his shirt an eye-catching shade of red, vivid as freshly spilled blood. His tie was now black, with MACUSA’s eagle embroidered on it in gold thread. He looked more like the man he’d been before Grindelwald – like the Director of Magical Security.

Mostly, at any rate. There was no hiding the starved sharpness of his face, or the new scar across his left cheekbone. The Director of Magical Security looked like a man of wealth and power. Graves looked like one of Newt’s creatures: feral and dangerous. That hadn’t changed, even if Queenie had dressed him in armor.

He raised his eyebrows at Queenie, a silent demand that she explain why she’d felt the need to alter his wardrobe.

"This suits you better,” Queenie said.

"Can you teach me that charm?” Credence asked. “Please?”

“Of course,” Queenie said, beaming at him. She giggled. “I didn’t think there was any magic the Director couldn’t do.”

“He’s terrible at tailoring charms,” Credence said.

“I have a tailor,” Graves protested. He ought to make an appointment with Tómas, he thought. He needed a whole new wardrobe. He didn’t think he could bear wearing anything Grindelwald had touched.

“Mending is a basic life skill,” Credence said tartly.

Graves hid his smile. They’d had this conversation before, he and Credence. He was glad they could have it again as free men.

Credence pulled a heavy wool greatcoat from the closet and helped Graves into it. “Go be the Director of Magical Security,” he said. He straightened the lapels of Graves’ coat and leaned in to kiss him, as fierce and possessive as earlier but without the teeth. “Then come back to me.”

“Always,” Graves promised. He wanted to lean in for another kiss, but the bright red tips of Credence’s ears told him that Credence had just remembered that they weren’t alone.

He forced himself to walk out the front door before he said anything foolish.

It was time to be the Director of Magical Security.

 

*

 

Graves Apparated to the alley next to the Woolworth Building. He took a minute to reach for the core of his power and let it well up the way he had when he was testing Grindelwald’s wards, simmering just beneath his skin. He couldn’t do anything about the way he looked, but he’d be damned if he let anyone think he was weak.

The doorman did a double take when he saw Graves, but he let Graves in anyway. Graves stalked through the door and into the heart of MACUSA, ignoring the way people flinched and stared.

Graves looked out over the familiar polished black marble of the foyer, the gleaming gilded furnishings and the bronze statues with their somber reminder: _Integritas, Unitas, Virtus, Magia._

Integrity, Unity, Valor, Magic.

He’d lived by those principles his whole life.

The Special Tribunal had summoned him to the Eyrie, which was on the same floor as the Department of Professional Standards and Integrity. It was officially known as the Eagle’s Chamber, but Graves had only ever heard it referred to as the Eyrie for as long as he’d been an Auror.

The Auror division hated the Eyrie. It was where you went when you’d fucked up badly enough that the DPSI felt the need to get involved. Being summoned to the Eyrie meant that unless you were very, _very_ lucky and your supervisor was in your corner, that you had crossed the line from lawman to law breaker.

Grindelwald should have sent Goldstein to the Eyrie, and not the Department of Final Justice. That should have been a giant fucking red flag that Graves wasn’t himself.

Grindelwald was – for once – not his concern right now. The Special Tribunal was.

He walked through the foyer, heading for the elevators.

Red, the house elf who manned the elevators during the week, looked Graves up and down. It was a suspicious sort of look, but Red tended to regard everyone with suspicion – too much time spent around Aurors had that effect on people.

“Director Graves,” Red said, closing the elevator doors on their watchers.

"Red,” Graves replied. “The Eyrie, please.”

Red grunted his acknowledgement and selected the right floor with a jab of his cane. “You look like hell,” he said.

Red had run the elevators since Graves was a boy. He was MACUSA’s the same way Graves was: in blood and bone-deep service. He’d earned a few liberties along with his MACUSA uniform.

“Feel like it, too,” Graves told him. He knelt so that he could look Red in the eye as an equal. “My people?”

Red considered the question, and all the things Graves left unspoken.

_How are my people? What did Grindelwald do to them? Are they okay? Are they scared?_

_Are they my people still, or are they his?_

“Scared,” Red said. “You Graves’, youse got a rep around here. There must always be a Graves in MACUSA,” he intoned, and his tone made it clear just how ridiculous he thought that sounded. “Not having you around spooked a lotta people.” Red shook his head. “Scared wizards are stupid ones,” he opined.

“Believe me, I know,” said Graves.

“You back?” Red asked. His voice was carefully neutral, like the answer didn’t matter to him.

Graves set his jaw. He was well aware that whatever he said would make it into the house elf grapevine as soon as he was out of the elevator doors. Every elf in MACUSA would know his answer before he’d even made it from the elevator into the Eyrie.

“I’m back,” he said, quiet and sure. “You said it yourself: there must always be a Graves in MACUSA. I am MACUSA’s, for as long as MACUSA will have me.”

“Wizards,” Red grunted. _“So_ melodramatic.”

“I am not melodramatic,” Graves grumbled, more for form’s sake than anything else.

Red snorted. “So that thing you do, where you stalk towards people in your big billowy coat, that’s what? Just the way you walk? Because the way you walk is melodramatic as hell.”

“Strange, but true,” Graves said, straight-faced.

Red laughed at him. “Give them hell, Director.”

Graves smiled back, with the faintest hint of teeth. “I intend to.”

 

*

 

Seraphina was dressed to the nines in a way that was clearly meant to awe foreign dignitaries and intimidate the hell out of lesser mortals. The top of her dress was black, the color of it gradually shifting to red as it traveled down the length of her body. It was rust colored at her waist and the same shade as freshly spilled blood by the time it reached her feet.

She’d pulled the sleeveless overcoat she frequently used as a cloak of office over the top of it. This time, the overcoat had been spelled until the fabric of it was nearly translucent, leaving only the heavy gold embroidery behind. The stylized head of MACUSA’s eagle rested between her breasts, and the stripes of the flag and the eagles wings flared out across her waist and down her hips.

Her skirts, Graves noticed, were the exact same shade of red as the one Goldstein the Younger had charmed his shirt.

It was a declaration of intent. Seraphina intended to stand by him. Her dress was a reminder that Graves had been MACUSA’s weapon – _her_ weapon – since the day he’d sworn his oath as an Auror. He’d shed blood to defend his people, and she intended to honor him for it.

Damn it, Seraphina, he thought. This isn’t your fight.

Seraphina’s expression was regal and cool. She met his gaze calmly.

Seraphina, like most Horned Serpents, could not be baited into blindly throwing herself into a fight. If Seraphina decided that a fight was hers, it was because she’d weighed both the consequences and the odds and was willing to accept both. It didn’t necessarily mean that Seraphina thought she could _win_ – winning wasn’t everything – only that she’d decided to pour every ounce of her ruthless, brilliant mind and power into making sure that it would be a Pyrrhic victory if she lost.

Graves inclined his head in acknowledgement. Seraphina had decided to _make_ this her fight, and who was he to gainsay her?

“Director Graves,” said Deputy Director Aidan McRory. Acting Director McRory now, Graves supposed, seeing as Grindelwald had been exposed and his own position as Director of Magical Security was the one they were here to discuss.

“Acting Director McRory,” Graves replied.

He looked at the other members of the Special Tribunal, who were arranged behind the dais in the Eagle’s Chamber. He’d expected Helmine Weiss, who was the Director of the Department of Professional Standards and Integrity. She, like Graves, was descended from one of the Twelve and carried her many times great-grandfather’s name. He respected the hell out of Weiss, but he would also be the first to admit that he didn’t like her very much. That had more to do with what she represented, professionally, than any personal dislike.

To Weiss’ right sat Judge Leonard Franklin, who Graves knew from personal experience was scrupulously fair. MACUSA lore also said that he was famously incorruptible; Judge Franklin could not be bought, bribed, blackmailed or intimidated into a ruling that was anything other than one that adhered strictly to the law. Judge Franklin had just passed his ninetieth birthday; he’d been making noises about retiring before Grindelwald took Graves prisoner, despite being as fit and healthy as a wizard two decades younger. Apparently he hadn’t retired yet.

Graves hadn’t expected Nasir al-Haqq, who was the Director of the Department of Final Justice. It took him a second to realize why al-Haqq was there: there was no one more qualified to pull memories from Graves’ head than al-Haqq. MACUSA’s executioners were almost as skilled at extracting memories as the Legilimens interrogators. It was their policy to send the condemned off to their final judgement with happy memories, but that did not mean that happy memories were all that the executioners were capable of extracting.

Well, fuck, he thought, gritting his teeth at the thought of someone else in his head.

Again.

He waited, letting each of them greet him first in deference to his position as a supplicant. He was not offered a chair and he did not ask for one. This was politics, and he knew how _that_ game was played.

“Percival Graves, you stand accused of collaborating with the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald,” Weiss said plainly. “By your own admission, you fed him information that allowed him to fool your peers into believing that he was you. You have aided and abetted him in his cause to further divide wizardkind from the No-Maj’s, and to foment war.” Her eyes were a shade of blue so pale they looked like ice, and she turned a cutting glance on Seraphina. “Madam President has argued in favor of leniency on your behalf. She argues that your actions were performed under duress, and therefore pardonable.”

Graves waited. He’d gotten very good at waiting, in the long weeks before Grindelwald had brought Credence to his cell that first time. There was something petty and satisfying about using the skills Grindelwald had forced him to learn to claim his old life back, just so he could put Grindelwald in the executioner’s chair.

“There is testimony to support it,” McRory offered, careful and diffident.

Graves had known McRory for a little over a week before Grindelwald had taken over his life. McRory had struck him as being more of an administrator than an investigator, which was a terrible trait in an Auror and a fabulous one in a Deputy Director. Administrators tended to be cautious; they made sure that all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed before things progressed any further. It was frustrating as hell to deal with when speed was of the essence, but even Graves couldn’t argue with the results. Airtight cases meant convictions.

Weiss turned her ice-pale eyes on McRory instead. “The Barebone boy’s testimony should be dismissed under spousal privilege.”

McRory gave her a placid look in return. “Spouses cannot be _compelled_ to testify against one another. The law says nothing about spouses who wish to testify, much less do so voluntarily. And in any rate, they’re not married yet, merely affianced.” He glanced at Graves, giving him a small smile. “Congratulations, sir.”

"Thank you,” Graves said. He decided he rather liked McRory.

“Do not,” Weiss said, biting the words out like hexes, “lecture me on the law, Acting Director McRory. It would have been better, had you allowed the Barebone boy’s testimony to be dismissed under spousal privilege.”

McRory’s placid expression didn’t change. Graves was starting to think he was doing it on purpose just to piss her off. “As opposed to?”

“Mental incompetence,” said Weiss.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me,” Graves snarled, nearly choking on the sudden surge of rage. She _dared_ say such things about Credence. He’d rip her throat out with his bare hands and let her see how well she could repeat such lies after that.

“Director Graves,” said Judge Franklin in a quelling voice. _“Control yourself.”_

Graves forced himself to release his fists and stop glaring daggers at Weiss. “Yes, sir,” he managed. “My apologies. I was simply unprepared to hear my fiancé slandered in such terms.”

"It’s hardly slander,” Weiss said. “The boy’s own testimony is proof of that. He knows nothing of us, of our world. He only knows what _you_ have taught him. His testimony is biased at best and tampered with at worst. He’s not prepared to stand as one of us. Given who raised him, I doubt he ever will be.”

Graves found that he disliked Weiss for _very_ personal reasons now. He couldn’t find it in himself to regret that.

Judge Franklin gave a disapproving grunt. “You go too far, Helmine,” he chided. Graves felt a flicker of hope. “The Barebone boy is biased, certainly. What wizard among us _wouldn’t_ defend the one who taught us our first spells? But his ignorance does not make him incompetent. His testimony is clear and concise, well-reasoned and possessed of an eye for detail that would make him a delight as a witness in any case but this one.”

The flicker of hope died.

“He is, after all, quite biased,” Judge Franklin concluded. “Had he felt any kind hand before yours, Director Graves?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Graves said, because he couldn’t ignore a direct question.

“And now he carries your child.” Judge Franklin shook his head. “Quite biased. Quite biased indeed.”

“Credence is neither incompetent nor biased,” Graves snarled. “To declare him such does him a disservice. _We_ were the ones who failed him. _We_ should have noticed what he was, what _his sister_ was, and taken them from an abusive No-Maj before an _eight year old girl_ transformed into the first American Obscurial in two hundred magic-be-damned years and brought Gellert fucking Grindelwald down on our shores.

“He was looking for her, did you know that? Grindelwald came here for Modesty Barebone, and it’s a mercy the girl died before he could get his hands on her.

“MACUSA failed them both, so don’t you _dare_ sit there and try to tell me it was his fault.”

“That’s very touching,” said Weiss. “But all it proves is that you are biased too.”

Graves squashed the urge to shout that _of course_ he was fucking biased at her. This was his fiancé they were talking about here. His Credence.

Al-Haqq cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find that anyone who has personally met Director Graves is somewhat biased,” he murmured.

Al-Haqq’s voice was low and quiet and kind. It was the sort of voice you had to strain to hear.

The voice of the Angel of Death, or so the junior Aurors said.

“Healer Aelinor Bluebird certainly is,” al-Haqq pointed out.

“The Bluebird is the foremost Healer of our age,” McRory protested, aghast. “You can’t mean to argue that _her_ testimony should be inadmissible.”

Al-Haqq considered McRory for one long, unblinking moment. “No,” he said. “I would, however, like to point out that quibbling over the emotional intentions of our witnesses is not what we have been asked to do. Our purpose is to consider the testimony as it is presented, and to deliver a sentence on it in as unbiased a fashion as _we_ can manage.”

Graves would have smiled at that – it had been a _marvelous_ set down, and he really wanted to use it on some uppity lawyer the next time he had to testify – had it not been _his_ life and career on the line.

Judge Franklin made a vague noise of agreement. “Shall we return to the matter at hand, then?” he asked. He didn’t wait for the rest of the Tribunal to answer. “You are accused of collaborating with Grindelwald, Graves. You admitted to telling him how to pass as yourself.”

“I did,” Graves acknowledged, and waited. If Franklin wanted to give him just enough rope to hang himself, he was going to be very disappointed.

Franklin squinted at him, clearly waiting for Graves to justify his actions.

Graves kept waiting.

McRory cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling us why, sir?”

“My actions were committed under duress,” Graves said flatly. “That does not exonerate them, but it does explain why. Major Investigations put together a preliminary profile on Grindelwald as soon as we suspected his attentions had shifted in our direction. It notes a willingness to use torture to achieve his endgame. I can tell you from first hand experience that Grindelwald is not just willing to use torture: he enjoys it.

“The thing about torture is that everyone breaks. No exceptions. The only thing that changes is _how._ Some people go mad. Others will do anything to make the pain stop. For my part, I found that there were things I could not bear. Things I could not let come to pass, and Grindelwald wearing my fucking face while he murdered everyone I’d ever cared about was one of them. He made it clear that any failure on his part to pass as me would cost lives.

“It did cost lives,” he said roughly, thinking of Norton. “He threatened Seraphina. He threatened my team and their loved ones. He threatened _my people,_ and no one gets to do that and live.” He looked up at the Special Tribunal and let them see all the rage he’d kept bottled up for the last five and a half months. He let his fury bleed into his power until the Eagle’s Chamber vibrated with it. “I decided that I would rather ensure my people lived by whatever means necessary, even if it meant violating their trust. So I told him how to fool you, but I never once told him how to hurt MACUSA. I swore an oath to protect our country and our people. I have not broken it.”

“We have only your word for that,” Weiss said evenly.

Graves tilted his head to indicate al-Haqq. “That’s why he’s here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” al-Haqq said. He descended down the dais with wand out.

Graves squashed his instinctive response, which was to disarm al-Haqq by any means necessary. No Auror liked having a wand pointed at them.

“The happy memories don’t hurt,” al-Haqq warned him. “This will.”

Graves tilted his head in acknowledgment and concentrated on letting al-Haqq do what needed to be done. He couldn’t afford to react on instinct, the way he had with Parrish.

It did hurt. Not as bad as the Cruciatus did, but nothing hurt as bad as that. This was focused pain, a throbbing in his head that felt like the prelude to a migraine. Al-Haqq was careful, pulling out Graves’ memories of interacting with Grindelwald to let the others listen to what he said and what he didn’t. He paused once he got to Norton; Graves heard an echo of his own desperate roar ring through the room. _“Grindelwald! Come back here, damn you! GRINDELWALD!”_

Graves forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he took another. “James Norton deserves his phoenix feather in the hall of fame.”

“Yes,” said McRory, who was an Auror for all that he was an administrator. He knew what it was like to lose one of their own. “He does.”

“May I continue?” al-Haqq asked.

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

Al-Haqq did.

Weiss’ expression was carefully impassive. So was Franklin’s. McRory looked like he wanted to be sick. Worst of all was Seraphina, who was wearing her habitual regal mask that did not quite reach the anguish in her eyes.

Graves looked away. He hadn’t wanted to show her any of this. It was his burden to bear, not hers.

“Would you like something for the headache?” al-Haqq asked, careful and polite.

Graves shook his head. He didn’t trust potions he hadn’t personally purchased or brewed right now. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yes,” agreed al-Haqq. “You have.”

“It seems you were telling the truth,” Weiss said. “He didn’t ask you about MACUSA, and you didn’t tell him.”

“It wasn’t his goal. He didn’t want MACUSA, he wanted the Obscurial.”

“Madam President argued on your behalf,” Weiss reiterated. “She would have you treated as a prisoner of war.”

“The Bluebird’s testimony supports that argument,” McRory said, a hint of heat creeping into his placid tone for the first time.

“The Bluebird’s testimony lays the grounds for an insanity plea,” Weiss shot back.

“It _what,”_ said Graves.

“Healer Bluebird pointed out that one of Grindelwald’s favored tactics was starvation,” Judge Franklin explained. “A starving brain does not make good choices.”

“What the fuck, Aelinor,” Graves said.

Franklin gave his fellow Tribunal members an irritated look. “Let us dispense with the notion that this is a popularity contest,” he said. “This is not a matter of political maneuvering, or a game to be won based on who you know. This is a trial. If you cannot be impartial, Helmine, recuse yourself. Madam President is correct: Graves should be treated as a prisoner of war. He was one. You saw with your own eyes that at no point during his captivity did he say or do anything to place MACUSA in jeopardy aside from enabling a madman to walk in our midst. His unwilling collaboration is unfortunate and likely to be an unpleasant scandal once the _Ghost_ gets ahold of the story, but the fact of the matter is that we need him and you know it.”

“I am as impartial as anyone else in this room,” Weiss retorted.

“True enough,” Franklin agreed. He sighed. He looked old, all of sudden. Old and tired, like he felt every second of the last ninety years and then some. “We need you,” he said to Graves. “The Graves’ have served MACUSA from the beginning, and we have need of your service still.”

“I swore an oath to serve MACUSA,” Graves said, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I intend to keep it.”

“See that you do,” said Franklin. He looked at the rest of the Tribunal. “Let us put it to a vote, shall we?”

Weiss gave him a flat, snake-like look. “Very well.”

“The Special Tribunal accepts the motion to pardon Percival Graves of all crimes committed during his imprisonment, and to reinstate him as Director of Magical Security and Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Acting Director McRory, what say you?”

“Aye,” said McRory.

“Director al-Haqq?”

“Aye,” said al-Haqq.

“Director Weiss?”

Weiss was quiet for long enough that Graves thought she would say nay just to spite him. “Aye,” she said, looking like the word was a foul taste in her mouth.

“I myself vote aye as well. Madam President?”

“Aye,” Seraphina said, her regal calm giving way to a broad smile.

Franklin nodded. “Then let the record show that the Special Tribunal pardons Percival Graves of all crimes committed during his imprisonment, and reinstates him to his position.”

“Thank you,” Graves said with a bow, because good manners dictated nothing less.

“Don’t thank us, Director Graves,” Weiss said. “It would have been kinder had we forced you into retirement.”

“And why is that?” Graves asked, frowning.

“Grindelwald wants to speak with you, sir,” said McRory. “He demanded to, actually. He says he won’t speak with anyone else.”

“Ah,” said Graves. Grindelwald had tainted this too, then. Of fucking course he had. “I suppose I should get to work, then.”

"Don’t be an idiot,” said Seraphina. “We need to schedule a press conference. Come back on Monday.”

Graves hated press conferences.

“Yes, Madam President.” Graves looked at Seraphina, a question in his eyes.

“Go,” she said. She did not say, _I’ve got this,_ but it was what she meant.

Graves bowed again, and went. Red was waiting for him in the elevator, a pointed look on his craggy face.

“I’m back,” Graves said.

“Good,” said Red. He jabbed the button for the ground floor. “Try not to cry, willya?”

“Cry,” Graves repeated, with vague affront. He was far too old for tears, to say nothing of far too angry. Grindelwald had tainted his return to MACUSA the way he’d tainted nearly everything else in Graves’ life, except for Credence. He didn’t feel like crying.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Red told him, as the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor.

Graves stepped out into the foyer. It was significantly more crowded than it had been when he’d gone up to the Eyrie: it looked like every Auror on the East Coast was crammed into the foyer, even the ones who were off-duty.

It wasn’t just the Aurors. It was everyone in Magical Law Enforcement. Graves caught sight of Abernathy, from the Wand Permit Office and Sam from Obliviations. There were representatives from a dozen different departments waiting for him.

“Director Graves!” a familiar voice shouted.

Graves turned to face Hughes, readying a silent _protego_ on instinct. She very rarely bothered with his proper title; he was always ‘boss’ to her, and anything else was a warning sign.

Hughes grinned at him. Behind her were Collins and Summersea. Collins looked a bit misty-eyed behind his big beaming smile, and Summersea’s habitual serenity had given way to an expression of relief and gladness.

He let the _protego_ go, uncast. These were his people. He didn’t trust them as unreservedly as he once had, but they were still his. Grindelwald hadn’t taken that from him too.

Hughes tapped the tip of her wand to her heart and raised it up above her head. It was the Aurors salute – the old one, from the first days of MACUSA, when there were still Scourers and dying young was more of a certainty than a possibility.

Summersea and Collins followed suit a half-second later.

Graves watched, throat tight, as the gesture rippled around the room. It felt like the whole of Magical Law Enforcement had turned out to welcome him home.

He was among his people again, and he was _home._

Graves swallowed hard. He wasn’t going to cry. He _wasn’t._

“Thank you,” he said, pleased that his voice sounded calm and even. He stepped out into the crowd, which surged forward to meet him. People he barely knew reached out to clasp his shoulder, pat his back, shake his hand. Graves let them, moving through the crowd until he’d reached his team.

“Graves,” said Summersea. “Glad to have you back, sir.”

“Boss,” said Hughes.

“Sir,” Collins said.

“It’s good to see you,” Graves said. He raised his voice. “All of you.”

There were things he needed to say – things his team needed to hear. Now wasn’t the time for that, though.

“I’ll be back at work first thing on Monday,” Graves announced. “You’ve all done well, but we still have work to do.”

“Same old boss,” said Hughes.

“Damn right,” Graves told her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is so much talking in this one, guys. SO MUCH. No warnings for content, though. That will all be chapter 11, because captivity has not improved Grindelwald's personality at all.
> 
> Er, okay, slight warning for repetitive dialogue. Bits of Chapter 9 are repeated from Credence's perspective. Hope that doesn't bug people too much.

_“You_ are staying right here in this safe house,” said Percival.

It took a second for that to sink in. That Percival meant to leave him here – to leave him _behind_ – while Percival went out to fight alone. Credence went speechless with rage, his magic surging up uncontrollably. The pillows on their bed exploded.

“You can’t keep me prisoner here, Percival,” snapped Credence. He’d had enough of prisons, thank you very much. He would not tolerate being put in another one, no matter how good Percival’s intentions were.

“You’re not a prisoner,” said Percival. “You’re _safe_ here, behind wards I trust. With _people_ I trust. And besides, the Special Tribunal didn’t summon you. They already have your statement.”

“Then get them to make an exception,” Credence said. They’d made an exception for Dindrane, when he’d been statemented. They could make an exception for him too. “I am not some delicate princess you need to keep locked up in a tower – I’m your partner!”

“Fuck,” said Percival, looking gutted. “Do you really think that’s what I think of you? Credence, you’re the strongest person I know. You and him – you’re my entire fucking world, alright? And I can’t lose you. I _can’t._ I’m not strong enough to come back from that. Right now, I don’t know who at MACUSA I can trust. I don’t know if Grindelwald got a toehold in my department – with _my_ people – and I don’t know if his fanatics are gunning for me. All I know is that it will kill me if you get caught in the crossfire. So please, _please_ let me keep you safe a little while longer,” he begged.

Mr. Grindelwald liked to make Percival beg. Credence didn’t. It was wrong, hearing Percival beg. Percival should never have to beg for anything.

“Damn it, Percival,” he said. He wanted to grab Percival by the shoulders and _shake_ all the stupid, self-sacrificing impulses out of him. He wished Percival’s paranoia wasn’t quite so reasonable. “All of that will still be true tomorrow,” he pointed out.

“Tomorrow,” said Percival, in what he clearly thought was a reasonable tone, “I’ll be better prepared.”

Of course he would.

“We’re not done talking about this, either,” Credence told him.

“I know,” said Percival.

Credence helped Percival dress in slightly too big clothes, watching him pull each layer on like he was donning a suit of armor. He was dressed more or less the way he was the first time Credence had seen him. The real him, at any rate.

“We’ll talk more when I get home,” said Percival.

That was what _he_ thought.

“I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen,” Credence said sternly.

That made Percival smile, for some reason. “Fair enough,” he said, stealing a kiss. He went back out to the living room, where their guests were waiting. “Does anyone know a decent tailoring charm?”

“I can help,” said Miss Queenie with a bright smile. She waved her wand at Percival, doing something to make his clothes fit better. She also changed the color of his shirt from plain white to blood red. It was very dramatic. It made him look powerful and confident.

Well, more powerful and more confident.

“This suits you better,” Miss Queenie explained.

Miss Queenie had a point. Credence had not realized just how good Percival looked in red. Ma would have said it made him look like a sinner. Ma would have been wrong about that, just like she was wrong about a lot of things.

“Can you teach me that charm?” Credence asked her. “Please?” He wanted to learn the tailoring charms. _Someone_ in their house ought to know how they worked, and that someone was definitely not going to be Percival. Credence remembered the mess Percival had made trying to make his trousers fit more comfortably; the look of dismay on Percival’s face when that simple bit of magic had gone wrong had been comical.

“Of course,” Miss Queenie said, with another one of her bright, beaming smiles. She giggled. “I didn’t think there was any magic the Director couldn’t do.”

“He’s terrible at tailoring charms,” Credence said.

“I have a tailor,” Percival grumbled, which was what he’d said about Credence’s pants.

“Mending is a basic life skill,” Credence retorted, just like he had then. He went to the closet and fetched Percival’s coat, holding it out for Percival to slip into. “Go be the Director of Magical Security,” he commanded. He leaned in to kiss Percival, because if he had to stay here while Percival went out to fight, he’d damn well give Percival a reason to come home again. It wasn’t seemly to be so affectionate so publicly, but Credence found he didn’t care. “Then come back to me.”

“Always,” said Percival, voice low and warm: a promise. He walked out the front door and disappeared.

It was a lot harder to not be embarrassed without Percival there to act as buffer. He burned with embarrassment at how shameless he must have looked: how wanton, no better than a whore.

Miss Queenie made a sharp, distressed noise that made Tina jerk to attention like a dog on the hunt.

“Oh, honey, no,” said Miss Queenie. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all adults here. We can handle two wizards in love, even if one of ‘em is Teenie’s boss.”

“He’s your boss, too,” Tina pointed out, relaxing a little now that she knew the reason behind her sister’s distress.

Credence stared at both of them. Percival had said something very much to that effect a few days ago. He’d also mentioned that Tina’s sister could read minds. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Tina sighed, as Credence frantically tried to remember if he’d thought _anything_ inappropriate since Miss Queenie and Newt and Mr. Kowalski had climbed out of Newt’s case. For once, Credence was almost pathetically grateful that women had never appealed to him the way that men did, because he hadn’t thought anything inappropriate about Miss Queenie _or_ Tina. He wasn’t even sure that he knew _how_ to think anything inappropriate about a woman. Or men, really, aside from Percival.

And now he was thinking inappropriate things about Percival. Oh, God, Credence was going to go hide in their bedroom for _the rest of his life._

“Credence,” Tina said firmly, putting cool fingers under his chin and forcing him to look at her. “Don’t think about apples.”

Credence’s frantic thoughts came to a sudden stop, derailed by the strangeness of the command. Why didn’t Tina want him to think about apples? And why had she _told_ him not to? Now all he could think about were apples, which Credence had always thought of as being the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, although he supposed, since the Bible did not _say_ that they were apples, that it could have been any other kind of fruit. A peach, maybe. Peaches seemed much more sinful than apples.

He realized, abruptly, that he was thinking complete nonsense and not worrying about what Miss Queenie might hear at all.

“Oh,” he said, meeting Tina’s warm brown eyes. “That’s a neat trick.” All trying not to think about things did was make you think of them. Tina had redirected that panicked impulse and forced him to think about something harmless.

No wonder Percival wanted her on his team. She was very clever.

Tina smiled back, a little crooked. “Learning how to hide from a Legilimens takes time. For now, if there’s something you don’t want Queenie to hear, put a fence around it.”

Mr. Kowalski made a brief noise of protest. “You never told _me_ that,” he said. “Is it ‘cause I’m not a wizard?”

“Of course not,” Miss Queenie said. “I told you. You’re one of us now.”

“And you actually seem to like it when Queenie reads your thoughts,” Tina pointed out, sounding a little apologetic. “I didn’t think, Jacob, I’m sorry.”

Mr. Kowalski shrugged his earlier objection off, a good-natured smile on his face. “I don’t mind, most of the time,” he said. “And you’ve had other things on your mind.”

Mr. Kowalski was a No-Maj: an ordinary person. He had the pocket watch Percival had made tucked into the pocket of his sensible black wool waistcoat, the chain hooked safely behind one of its mismatched buttons.

Credence thought maybe Mr. Kowalski would understand what it was like, being an ordinary person among wizards. He wasn’t exactly an ordinary person anymore, but he hadn’t grown up with magic the way everyone else in the room had. He didn’t understand how the wizarding world worked. He was going to have to learn how to navigate it just like Mr. Kowalski would.

Maybe they could learn together.

“Oh,” Miss Queenie said, “what a lovely idea.”

“Queenie,” Tina sighed. _“Try_ to be subtle.”

Miss Queenie was one of those people who just _sparkled_ no matter what they were doing, like leaded glass in the sunlight, or the crystal gewgaws sewn into dresses Ma said no moral woman would ever wear. Credence suspected that asking her to _stop_ sparkling would be like asking a bird not to fly.

Miss Queenie giggled.

Tina sighed again and gave up on trying to reprimand her sister. “I think some proper introductions are in order,” she decided. “Credence, my sister Queenie. She works in the Wand Permit office in the Woolworth Building.”

“Hardly,” said Miss Queenie. “I just bring the coffee. And it’s just Queenie, honey, no need to call me ‘Miss’ anything.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Credence told her, taking her smooth, soft hand in one of his scarred palms and shaking it gently.

“And Jacob Kowalski. Jacob makes the pastries you like,” Tina told him. “He’s going to open a bakery.”

Mr. Kowalski gave him a smile and a commiserating look. “Tina and Newt say you’re pretty new to all this too,” he said. “Magic, huh?”

Credence smiled back. “It all seems so impossible,” he admitted.

“Tell me about it,” Mr. Kowalski said, with feeling. He shook Credence’s hand, frowning a bit over Credence’s scars. “Hey, kid,” he began.

Queenie touched his elbow gently, drawing his attention. Credence wondered if she could do more than just read minds, because Mr. Kowalski abandoned the question he’d been about to ask and said instead, “Anybody want lunch?”

“Oh,” Credence said. “I’m so sorry. I should have offered.” He hesitated. “I’m not much of a cook.” With magic or without it, unfortunately. You didn’t need to be a _good_ cook to make gruel.

Mr. Kowalski gave him a vaguely appalled look. “You kidding me?” he asked. “My grandma, God rest her soul, would never forgive me if she thought I expected someone in the family way to do the cooking or the cleaning. Put your feet up, kid. I can make lunch.”

Credence hadn’t expected an ordinary person to be quite so accepting of a man carrying another man’s child. Percival had said that men with men wasn’t common, even among magical folk, but it wasn’t illegal. So far, most of the wizards he’d met hadn’t treated his pregnancy as anything out of the ordinary. Mr. Kowalski didn’t seem like he found anything out of the ordinary about it either.

Mr. Kowalski might not have had magic, but Credence was starting to believe that he was anything but ordinary. Ordinary men weren’t so accepting and they _definitely_ weren’t as kind in his general experience.

That, he thought, was why Rappaport’s Law needed to be changed. It was stupid, that he couldn’t be friends with Mr. Kowalski just because Mr. Kowalski didn’t have magic. Mr. Kowalski didn’t _need_ magic.

“You’re a guest,” he protested.

“I’m volunteering,” Mr. Kowalski said firmly. “It won’t be as fast as when the girls cook, or even when Newt does – not that I’m recommending that, mind you – but I’m good at cooking.”

Newt made a faintly offended noise.

Mr. Kowalski was unmoved. “I don’t know if it’s the British thing or the magizoologist thing,” he said. “But you do weird things to food, pal, don’t even try to deny it.”

Credence thought about the spicy tea from India, served up with milk that had probably not come from any animal _he’d_ ever heard of and had to agree.

“Could you teach me how to cook, Mr. Kowalski?”

“Jacob, please,” said Mr. Kowalski. “And sure, if you really wanna learn. You don’t want to learn how to do cook with magic?”

“Percival’s trying,” Credence said. “I can just about manage to toast bread rather than set it on fire now. It might be faster to learn how to cook the way normal people do.”

“Alright,” Jacob said easily. “How about spaghetti?”

“That’s going to take forever without magic,” Tina pointed out. She exchanged a look with Newt.

“I’m going to check on my creatures,” Newt said. “Tina, would you mind helping me with the permits?”

“Sure,” said Tina. “You three holler if you need anything, okay?”

Jacob looked at Queenie. “You’re not going to be bored?”

“With you around?” she teased. “Never. Besides, Teenie thinks that someone with a wand should stay up here, just in case.”

“Makes sense,” Jacob said. He smiled at Credence reassuringly. “Don’t you worry now. I’ve already fought my share of jerrys. I’m not afraid of fighting one more.” He produced a service revolver from his waistband. “Newt says you magic types don’t much notice guns. If that guy comes for you, he’s not going to see me coming.”

Credence was pretty sure Percival would never have let Jacob out of Newt’s case, if he’d known Jacob had a gun. There was certainly no reason that knowing Jacob had one should make Credence feel _safe,_ but it did.

He’d never seen a gun, much less held one, but they were a weapon he understood.

“If you have to, try to hit him in the head first,” Credence told him. “Being hit in the head works as well on wizards as it does anyone else. You can’t cast magic if you can’t concentrate.” That was what Percival had said, at any rate, and he would know.

Jacob nodded, like this made perfect sense to him. Queenie looked a little distressed, but she hid it quickly behind a bright smile.

“Alright,” Jacob said, tucking the revolver back into his waistband. “The secret to a good spaghetti is the sauce. Ordinarily, I’d tell you how to find the best tomatoes, but since fresh produce doesn’t seem to be a problem for you magic types, we might as well get down to business.”

It took Jacob the better part of the afternoon to teach Credence how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch. He was a patient teacher, and a funny one. His description of his part in Newt’s adventures made Credence double over with helpless laughter, which just made Jacob hover in a panicky way, certain that something was wrong with the baby.

He taught Credence how to make spaghetti noodles from scratch too, although they had to ask Queenie to use magic to roll the dough out into thin, neat noodles. She taught Credence the spell on spare bits of dough, laughing delightedly when he managed to duplicate her efforts despite his lack of a proper wand.

Newt and Tina emerged just as they were putting the noodles on to boil, bickering cheerfully about one of the permits. Tina and Queenie made garlic bread – “the way the Italians make it,” Jacob confided – while Newt was consigned to making the salad, on the grounds that his British magizoologist-ness could not do _that_ much damage to a salad. (Credence wasn’t sure what a caper was, or why they had them in the pantry, but he did not think they belonged in salads. That must have been what Jacob meant about Newt’s cooking. Newt had some very odd ideas about what constituted people food.)

Credence felt Percival return before he heard Percival’s voice at the door: the familiar feel of Percival’s magic, warm and rough and comforting.

“Something smells good,” Percival said, hanging his greatcoat back in the hallway closet.

“Percival!” Credence said, relieved.

Percival pulled him into a brief hug and a slightly less brief kiss. He looked tired and pleased.

“Sir?” Tina asked.

“I’ve been reinstated,” Percival said. “Seraphina wants to arrange a press conference before I go back to work on Monday.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” said Queenie, beaming.

“Yes,” Percival said, smiling despite himself. “It is.”

“Jacob showed me how to make spaghetti,” Credence told him. “It’s really good.” He offered Percival a spoonful of sauce to taste, watching Percival’s eyebrows go up with startled delight.

“That _is_ good,” Percival said. “Are you sure you don’t want to open a restaurant, Mr. Kowalski?” 

“Jacob, please,” said Jacob. “Nah. I _can_ cook, but I’d rather be a baker.”

Percival summoned the dishes and sent them towards the table. “If Newt doesn’t manage to convince you to use the occamy shells as collateral, I’d be happy to stand as an investor.”

Jacob gaped at him. “You don’t even _know_ me!”

“I know the Goldsteins,” Percival said. “They like you. So does Newt. That’s good enough for me.”

“Wizards!” said Jacob, to cover up the fact that he’d gone a bit misty-eyed. “Let’s eat, huh?”

 

*

 

Credence waited until after their guests had gone home to ask Percival how the Special Tribunal had gone.

Percival scowled. “I’ve decided that I _really_ don’t like Weiss,” he said. “Helmine Weiss,” he clarified a second later. “She’s the Director of the Department of Professional Standards and Integrity. They’re in charge of making sure that Magical Law Enforcement is held accountable for its actions. No one wants corrupt Aurors.”

“Huh,” Credence said, marveling at that. He’d never interacted much with the police, but everything he’d ever heard about them suggested a certain amount of corruption was just par for the course. It was amazing, how different the wizarding world was.

He’d heard that name before though. Or one like it. There was a Weiss who’d been one of the Twelve, wasn’t there?

“Is she like you?” he asked. “And Healer Wilkinson?”

“When did you meet Wilkinson?” Percival asked.

“At the hospital, right after Seraphina took you there. He was nice.”

_“Was_ he,” said Percival. There was something strange in his voice.

Credence frowned. “Why don’t you like Healer Wilkinson?”

“I don’t dislike him,” Percival objected. “He’s just … Young. Maybe he’s grown up some, since the last time I met him.”

“He’s older than I am,” Credence pointed out. “I think.”

“Argh,” said Percival. “Now I feel like a dirty old man. Thank you for that.”

They were getting a bit far afield of their original conversation. And the one they needed to have. Credence poked him, to get Percival back on track.

“Director Weiss?” he prompted.

“Hm? Oh, right. Yes, she is. She’s descended from one of the Twelve, too. The Weiss’ have a long history of service with MACUSA. They’re not quite as dedicated to it as we are, but it’s a longstanding tradition for them too.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

“The Aurors and the DPSI don’t get on much,” said Percival. “Mostly because they’re a bunch of snobby bastards who never come down from their ivory tower. They spend a lot of time judging us for our actions, and they have _no idea_ what it’s like to do what we do.”

Credence wondered if that explanation was supposed to make sense. It really, really didn’t.

“She doesn’t like me, either,” Percival said with a shrug. “But she still voted to reinstate me. Mostly because she had to.”

“Did Seraphina make her?”

“No,” Percival said, scowling again. “Grindelwald did. Apparently he doesn’t want to talk to anyone but me.”

“You’re not going to, are you?” Credence asked, suddenly anxious. He didn’t want Percival anywhere _near_ Mr. Grindelwald. He didn’t think Mr. Grindelwald could hurt Percival, not from behind bars or whatever the wizarding equivalent of a prison was, but he also didn’t want to take any chances.

“Of course,” Percival said, looking surprised that Credence had asked. “It’s my job. And even if he _hadn’t_ asked to speak with me, I’d still be sitting in on the interrogations.”

“What if he tries to hurt you again?” Credence asked.

Percival bared his teeth. “He can _try.”_

“Percival,” Credence said, a little desperately. “I can’t watch you get hurt again. I _can’t._ Please, don’t make me watch him hurt you.”

“I won’t,” Percival said. He dragged Credence into a hug, crooning wordless nonsense at him. “I _won’t,”_ he said again. “I swear it. Grindelwald can’t hurt me. Now I need to make sure that he can’t hurt anyone else, ever again, alright? Because he will. You know he will. If I don’t put him in an executioner’s chair, he’ll find a way to hurt more people. He’ll find the person he thinks is the second most powerful wizard in the world and he’ll hurt him, Credence. He’ll force that other wizard to bear his child, and then he’ll come for our son.”

“Promise me,” Credence said, fisting his hands in Percival’s shirt. “Promise me you’ll come home to us.”

“I promise,” Percival said.

Credence clung to him, anchoring himself in the strength of Percival’s arms. He wanted, just for a second, to hold onto Percival forever in order to keep him safe.

He let Percival go and took a step back, straightening his shoulders. 

“I trust you,” he said. “And I need you to trust me, too. You can’t keep me locked away from the rest of the world just to keep me safe any more than I can keep you locked up.”

“I _do_ trust you,” Percival said. “It’s the rest of the world I don’t trust.”

Credence gave him a flat look he hoped conveyed just how ridiculous he thought that statement was. He folded his arms across his chest and said, “Then trust that I can deal with it.”

“You’re vulnerable,” Percival countered. “Both of you are. You don’t even have a wand yet. And there are plenty of people who will go after you because you’re mine. The jackass at the _Ghost_ is the least of them. What if you run into Grindelwald’s fanatics?”

“Mr. Grindelwald’s not going to hurt me,” Credence said. “Not while I’m carrying his future general, at any rate. His followers probably won’t either, not if they want to stay in his good graces. Right now, _I’m_ safer from them than _you_ are.”

Percival made a face. “I know you’re right,” he admitted. “Logically, everything you just said makes sense. I just can’t make myself believe it _here,”_ he said, pressing one hand over his heart. “It’s all just … instinct and panic.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m going to make you a shield charm.”

Credence frowned at him. “Like the one Mr. Grindelwald has?”

“Exactly like,” said Percival.

“I thought you said those were incredibly dangerous to make.”

“They are,” Percival agreed. “I also told you that you don’t attempt to make something like that unless you love the person you’re giving it to so much that losing them would be worse than losing your magic, and that’s true too. It won’t happen – I’ve got the power and skill to make one – but I’d rather lose my magic than lose you.”

He made it sound so logical – like it was the only reasonable thing to do, rather than a stupidly dangerous plan where the only person who might get hurt was him.

The Bluebird was right, he thought. Percival would do whatever he thought he had to, and as long as he was the only one who got hurt for it, he acted like the ends justified the means.

Credence didn’t know how to make Percival realize that his own life was important, and that the people in it didn’t want him to get hurt. If Dindrane and Seraphina and the Bluebird hadn’t managed it, how could he?

He’d find a way. He had to. He didn’t want to keep having this argument with Percival for the rest of their lives, although he was willing to keep having it for as long as it took to make Percival see things from his point of view.

If he had more training, he could make Percival a shield charm of his own.

That was an interesting thought. Credence set it aside to think about later and focused on the matter at hand.

“If you get hurt making the shield charm, I will make you sleep on the couch until our son is old enough to go to Ilvermorny,” he said.

Percival blinked. Then he laughed. “That seems fair,” he said.

Of course it was. Credence was serious, even if Percival didn’t seem to believe that he was.

“I want you to teach me how to fight,” Credence said.

“You don’t –”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘you don’t need to,’ I’m going to scream,” Credence interrupted.

Percival closed his mouth.

“I do need to learn. If I’m going to be Credence Graves, then I need to know how to fight. It’s what Graves’ _do,_ isn’t it?”

Percival opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. It looked like he was trying to come up with an argument that did not include ‘you don’t need to learn how to fight’ in order to avoid the aforementioned screaming, which proved that Percival – for all his reckless disregard for his own safety – at least had a functioning sense of self-preservation.

Credence was pleased to see it. This was the first real evidence he’d had that it existed.

“Not all of us fight,” Percival said carefully. “Not everyone is suited for fighting. And we’ve never expected anyone who marries into the family to follow our traditions.”

“Percival,” Credence said, exasperated. “Do you have any idea how awful that sounds?”

“Awful,” repeated Percival. “Why is that awful? I just said that not everyone is suited to fighting. Most people who marry into the family aren’t. My mother was a Merlinian scholar, for magic’s sake.”

“You don’t expect me to follow your traditions,” Credence said. “At least not as far as me personally fighting goes. So what am I supposed to do once our son is old enough to learn how to fight? Just accept it? What if I don’t _want_ him to learn how to fight?”

“That’s not up to you,” Percival said. “That’s up to him.”

“Just like me learning how to fight is up to me,” Credence said. “I want to learn. If you won’t teach me, I’ll ask Dindrane.”

“Fine!” Percival said. “I’ll teach you. Why are we fighting about this?”

“I’m not fighting,” said Credence. “I’m making a point. You’re the one being pig-headed about it.”

“You making a point sounds like you fighting,” Percival said. He didn’t sound mad about it, though, just cautious.

Credence thought about it. He didn’t want to fight with Percival, and he also wasn’t sure he knew _how_ to fight with someone. This was an argument. Arguments were different.

“Arguing with someone isn’t the same as fighting,” Credence said at last. “If I decide to fight for something, you’ll know.”

Percival stared at him, his expression a strange mixture of pride and something else. Credence thought maybe it was fondness. “You’re magnificent,” he said, his voice full of raw admiration.

Credence blushed, and tipped his head back to signal that he wanted Percival to kiss him. Percival did, and there were no more words until morning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, guys. This chapter kicked my ass.
> 
> Please note the updated warnings in the tags. This chapter contains implied/referenced rape as well as rape aftermath. The original prompt for Nothing Shall Be Impossible was inherently dub-con, and this chapter deals with some of the emotional fallout. If you want additional warnings, please message me on tumblr, but the basic gist of it is that Percival Graves is an unreliable narrator with a martyr complex.

Credence frowned over the the story of Dorcas Twelvetrees and Bartholomew Barebone. He wondered if Bartholomew had been a relative of Ma’s – an ancestor, the way that Gondulphus Graves was Percival’s. Was that how Ma knew that he was a sinner? Ma hadn’t used magic, so she wasn’t a Scourer, not truly, but she’d known a lot more about the wizarding world than Credence realized. There had been a broken wand on the Second Salem banner.

The Bible didn’t say anything about wands. Neither did the _Malleus Maleficarum._ So how had Ma known that witches – _real_ witches – used them?

The thought that Ma had a legacy bothered him more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t just that she had one, but that she’d been raised to it: had tried to raise him and Chastity and Modesty to it too. They had her name but they didn’t have her blood; their legacy should have been magic, not Bartholomew Barebone’s watered down _hate._

Maybe that was why Ma had wanted them. To pervert the legacy that should have been theirs. To demonstrate that magic could be beaten out of them. If he and Modesty had magic, who could say that Chastity hadn’t had magic as well? Maybe she’d just buried it and embraced Ma’s teachings, because hate was easier than fear.

Credence set the book aside and went to the kitchen to make tea. Seraphina and Percival were closeted in the room Percival had claimed for an office to discuss tomorrow’s press release and Percival’s return to work. The shouting had mostly died down, which meant that someone – Credence suspected Seraphina – had won the argument about what Percival was allowed to say and/or do to the reporter from the _New York Ghost._ (Credence was on Seraphina’s side, as what Percival wanted to say to the reporter was terribly rude and what he wanted to do was worse.)

He thought about bringing them both more coffee. They didn’t really _need_ more coffee; all the shouting from earlier had proved that they were excitable enough without it, but it seemed like the sort of thing a good host and helpmeet would do.

Food would be better, he thought. It was a lot harder to shout at someone with your mouth full. Not impossible, but good manners dictated not to. He was just about to risk setting more bread on fire when there was a knock on the door.

Tina Goldstein was a godsend, he thought. He hoped she’d brought more of Jacob’s pastries with her.

He was not expecting Auror Collins or the pretty woman standing next to him. She had to be his wife, Dorothy. She looked _just_ like Percival had described her: strawberry blonde hair done up in curls, hazel eyes and a curvy figure. She wore a pale green blouse that brought out her eyes, and a neatly pressed dark blue skirt.

“Auror Collins,” he said, to cover up his surprise and the sudden feeling of familiarity. He didn’t know either of them, not really. He only knew the people in Percival’s stories. “Mrs. Collins. Hello. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Collins. He hovered a protective half-step behind his wife as he followed her into the safe house in a way that reminded Credence strongly of Percival.

“Are you here to see Percival?” Credence asked, leading them into the living room.

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Collins brightly. “I’m here to see you. Alex is here because he’s feeling overprotective.”

Mr. Collins gave her a wounded look that _definitely_ reminded Credence of Percival. It was a look that suggested he was restraining himself from acting on his truly paranoid impulses, and that he found being labeled overprotective hurtful.

Mrs. Collins smiled at him serenely, and did not crumble under that wounded look even a little bit.

Percival had said that he thought Credence would like Mrs. Collins, but Credence had not expected to like her as much as he did so immediately.

Mrs. Collins, he thought, really understood what it was like to be married to someone like Percival. She knew what it was like to be an Aurors spouse.

Maybe she could tell him how to make Percival see that his own life was important. If she could, Credence might very well nominate her for sainthood.

“I’m glad to meet you,” he said, offering her his hand to shake. “Credence Graves. But I suspect you already knew that.”

“Dorothy Collins,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly. She took a covered dish from her husband, who Credence noticed was laden down with a number of bags. Not quite as many as Dindrane had brought them, but there were an impressive number of them. “The Director mentioned that you were both still finding your feet, so I brought you a few things.” She handed Credence the dish, and Credence realized that it contained a baked ham. It was charmed so it was still warm, and looked incredibly tender.

“Oh,” he said. He’d never had baked ham before. It smelled delicious. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you. I’ll just put this in the kitchen. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Or coffee? There’s juice as well, if you’d like.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Dorothy said firmly. “Alex can have his coffee at the office. Where he’s supposed to be right now,” she added pointedly.

Mr. Collins gave her another wounded look. It made his movie star handsome face look soulful and tragic.

“I’ll be _fine,_ Alex,” said Dorothy. “Go to work.”

“Fine,” sighed Mr. Collins. “Nice seeing you again, Credence.” He set his bags down at the kitchen table, pressed a chaste kiss to his wife’s cheek, and vanished in a swirl of magic.

“Are you alright?” Credence asked, worried. “Did coming here put you in danger?” Would Mr. Grindelwald’s fanatics target her for coming here? No one knew where the safe house was, though, outside of Dindrane and Seraphina and Tina. That was what made it safe.

“I’m fine,” Dorothy assured him, a blush rising on her cheeks. “You and I are in the same condition, that’s all.”

It took Credence a second to figure out what she meant by that. “Oh,” he said. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” she said, still blushing. “It’s early, so we’re not telling many people yet, but I thought maybe you could offer some husband wrangling tips. How not to spend the next few months wrapped in an eiderdown comforter or spelled into a bubble. Director Graves seems like he’s being much more reasonable about your condition than Alex is.”

Credence thought about the scars on Percival’s left cheek and arm, which he’d only gotten because he’d put his body between Credence and a slashing hex. He thought about weeks of watching Percival starve himself on half-rations, because Credence and their son needed the lion’s share of the food. He thought about the way Percival had bargained and begged with Mr. Grindelwald on Credence’s behalf, and how Percival had done his best to make sure that _he_ was the only target Mr. Grindelwald decided to hurt, again and again with awful repetition.

None of that seemed reasonable to him.

“I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be,” he said, because he didn't know how to explain any of that. He wasn’t even sure that he was allowed to, given that Mr. Grindelwald was still in MACUSA’s custody. He was part of an ongoing investigation.

“Pity,” Dorothy said. “I was hoping I could tell Alex to behave more like Director Graves.”

“That,” Credence told her seriously, “is a _terrible_ idea.” The thought of Mr. Collins – kind, steadfast Mr. Collins – adopting any of Percival’s awful self-sacrificing tendencies was too horrible to even think about. “Percival is ... _Percival,”_ Credence tried to explain. He made a vague gesture with his hands, trying to encompass everything Percival was: his skill, his drive, his determination that absolutely no one got to hurt his people while there was breath in his body to stop them.

Dorothy stared at him.

Credence’s stomach sank. He was probably making an absolutely terrible first impression on her, and he wanted her to like him. But here he was, criticizing Percival like some awful shrew. She probably thought he was going to be an awful Aurors spouse, and any second now she was going to walk away and he’d lose his chance to ask her how to make Percival see that his own life was just as important as everyone else’s. She’d probably tell Mr. Collins that he was awful, and Mr. Collins and the rest of Percival’s team would think badly of him and –

Small hands gripped his with surprising strength. “Shush,” she murmured, dragging him in for a hug. “It’s alright. I’m not – I’m no threat to anyone, see?” she said, gesturing to all barely five feet of herself. “It’s alright,” she said again.

Credence took a deep breath, and then another. He blinked the panicked black spots away from his vision and realized that he’d dropped tea all over the kitchen floor.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, mortified. He pulled away from Dorothy, despite how much he wanted to lean into the hug. He barely knew her; it was hardly appropriate. “I don’t know what came over me.” He _scourgified_ the kitchen clean wordlessly, the way Percival would have. God knew he had enough practice at it to cast the cleaning spell in his sleep.

Dorothy’s pretty hazel eyes went big and round. “You just – No _wonder_ the Director thinks so highly of you,” she said. “You really are a match for him, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Credence said, embarrassed. “It’s nothing special.”

Her eyes got impossibly bigger. “It really is,” she told him. “You’re very powerful, aren’t you?”

Credence shrugged. Tina had said that he was. Percival, too, although Percival was probably biased. He didn't feel powerful, or special. He hadn’t even been a wizard for six months yet. There were still too many things he didn’t know.

“And modest,” she said, with a little smile Credence thought might be meant as encouragement. “Good thing Director Graves snapped you up. You’d be fighting suitors off left and right, and you’d never get anything done.”

That was so ridiculous that Credence had to laugh. He couldn’t imagine anyone with magic being interested in _him._ Some days he still couldn’t believe that Percival was. He was just ugly, scrawny Credence Barebone. A little less scrawny these days, now that he was finally getting enough to eat, but he was nothing to write home about.

“I’m serious,” Dorothy insisted.

“You’re very kind,” Credence said, with a wry smile. He put the kettle on to boil, because Newt had been right and there was something comforting about the ordinariness of the routine.

“We’re getting a bit side tracked, aren’t we?” Dorothy asked, going to the bags Mr. Collins had set on the kitchen table. “I told you I brought you a few things.” She held a small cloth bag out to Credence. It was neatly made and embroidered with two wedding bands picked out in gold thread. Percival had said she was a seamstress.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s ... well, it’s superstition, really, but there’s a bit of a good luck charm inside,” she told him.

Credence tipped the bag’s contents out into his palm. They were herbs, he realized. Rosemary and something shaped like a star and a nut of some sort.

“Rosemary is the herb for lovers,” Dorothy told him. “Star anise, whose many points coming together symbolize your union. And a whole nutmeg, because as long as you have a whole nutmeg in the kitchen your marriage should be sound. I didn’t put it under a _preservatus_ charm, because that’s supposed to be bad luck,” she added. For the first time, she seemed a little shy. “It’s not _real_ magic. It’s a bit silly, I suppose, clinging to hearth witch superstition in this day and age, but I thought … I hope you like it.”

“It’s lovely,” Credence said, and meant it. He carefully tipped the herbs back into the little embroidered bag. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. Am I supposed to keep it somewhere special?”

“I keep mine tucked in with the rest of my spices,” Dorothy said. “To remind me that the best foods are seasoned with love.”

Credence liked the thought of that. And their kitchen actually had spices now, courtesy of Newt’s case and Jacob’s cooking lesson. He tucked the good luck charm carefully behind the oregano and the bay leaves and the salt.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled at him. It was a little bit like Queenie’s smile, although not quite so bright or sparkling. (No one, Credence thought, was as bright or as sparkling as Queenie.) It was sweeter, the sort of smile that made you feel good just to look at. Having it turned on him was even better.

“I brought a few things for the baby,” she added, that faint hint of shyness returning. Another bag produced a knitted blanket that was the softest thing Credence had ever touched. He cuddled it close to his chest, overwhelmed and delighted.

He hadn’t let himself think about what would happen after his son was born very much; he couldn’t. If he was still Mr. Grindelwald’s prisoner – assuming he survived the birth, which did not seem likely, given what the Bluebird had said about Mr. Grindelwald’s spellcasting – then all he could imagine was the pain of his empty arms, the torment of not knowing where his son was, or what Mr. Grindelwald might be doing to him. He’d known, even then, that there was no way Mr. Grindelwald would ever let them keep him.

No one would ever take their son away now that they were free. Credence would make sure of that. So would Percival.

Maybe it was time to start thinking about what would happen after his son was born. Babies needed things, didn’t they? Credence had looked after his sisters, and the orphans, but most of them were weaned and walking. He didn’t know how to care for an infant.

Maybe Percival would know. He had nieces and nephews.

“This is beautiful,” Credence said. He curled his fingers into it again. “And so soft.”

“It’s wool and alpaca,” Dorothy explained.

“What’s an alpaca? Are they magical?”

“I think they’re a little like sheep,” Dorothy said. “I’ve never actually seen one. They’re from South America. They have long, soft hair that the No-Maj’s make yarn out of. It’s delightful to work with.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He was oddly comforted by Dorothy’s lack of knowledge; he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know things. Yarn made from alpacas was just an ordinary sort of magic, then.

He wondered if Newt knew what an alpaca was. He probably did.

Dorothy’s other bags yielded up tiny knitted booties and mittens and a half dozen carefully made baby outfits. They were _tiny._ Credence hadn’t realized that babies started out so small, and then felt a little stupid for not realizing it. Of course babies started out very small, or no woman would ever survive giving birth.

“This is too much,” Credence protested, because it was. “You ought to save a few things for your baby.”

Dorothy laughed. “This is nothing,” she said. “It seems like someone in the Woolworth building or in our neighborhood is always have a baby, so I like to have a few things on hand, just in case. I’ve got more in my sewing room.” She rested one hand against her still flat stomach, lightly reassuring. It was odd, seeing that familiar gesture from the other side. “I’ve got time to make a few more things.”

Credence made a mental note to return the favor. It was just good manners. He couldn’t make things by hand, the way she could, but maybe there were charms to _make_ clothing as well as mend them. He’d have to ask.

There was, impossibly, one more bag sitting on the kitchen table. Dorothy caught him eyeing it and smiled at him again. “Director Graves said that you wanted to learn how to cook,” she said.

“I want to learn _everything,”_ Credence said. He wanted to learn how to take care of Percival _properly._ Learning how to cook seemed like a good start. “Where do we start?”

 

*

 

Seraphina smirked at him.

Graves glowered back; he hated losing, especially to Seraphina.

“Being smug is unbecoming behavior in a lady,” he grumbled tartly, channeling Grandmama Genevieve right down to her upper class Georgia drawl.

Seraphina arched one eyebrow at him. “Are you really going to lecture _me_ on proper behavior, Percival?”

“Fuck, no,” said Graves. “It just slipped out.” He had no desire to be on the receiving end of one of Genevieve Picquery’s lectures on hypocrisy and unbecoming behavior in a gentleman.

Again.

Seraphina went back to smirking at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Director Graves,” she said.

“Madam President,” he replied. He opened the door to his study, gesturing for Seraphina to precede him out of it.

There were voices coming from the kitchen. Graves had felt Collins’ magic against the wards half an hour ago, announcing his arrival just before he knocked on the front door. It was considered the polite thing to do among Aurors, and it usually kept you from getting accidentally hexed if the person you were visiting was feeling especially paranoid.

Graves had, perhaps, been remiss in not going out to greet both the Collins’, but he’d been arguing with Seraphina about the fucking press conference at the time, and he did not think yelling invective down the hallway at the president of MACUSA would help Credence and Dorothy make good first impressions on each other.

He really hoped they got along as well as he thought they would. The Aurors spouses had an informal network of mentors and mentees that he was, technically, supposed to pretend he knew nothing about. (The Aurors spouses network was meant to be a secret, generally from the Aurors themselves, but they were cops and investigating was what they did, so of course everyone knew. They just pretended that they didn’t.) If Dorothy and Credence didn’t take to one another, there would be someone else who could take Credence under their wing and help him build a support network.

He just wouldn’t trust whoever it was with Credence the way he trusted Dorothy. She had the same kind of heart as Credence: sweet and kind and unexpectedly ferocious in defense of her loved ones. Graves could think of no one better to explain what it meant to be married to an Auror.

Graves found himself heading towards the kitchen instead of the front door. Seraphina trailed after him, more for her own entertainment than moral support.

“My sisters and I used to throw bits of dough at each other and try to catch it in our mouths,” Dorothy told Credence.

Credence gave her a politely dubious look. “Isn’t that wasteful?” he asked.

“Only if we missed,” Dorothy said easily. “Catch!” She lobbed a bit of cookie dough at Credence. Credence was too startled to open his mouth and try to catch it, so it hit him in the nose and fell towards the ground.

“Oh, no,” said Credence.

Dorothy’s quick fingers scooped it up before it could hit the floor. She popped it into his mouth, grinning impishly. “I was the Pukwudgie Seeker, at Ilvermorny,” she confided. “Alex was in Thunderbird. He played Keeper.”

Credence cocked one eyebrow at her.

Dorothy flushed. “Not like that!” she said. “Well, maybe a _little_ like that.”

Credence laughed quietly.

Credence’s laughter was still a rare enough thing that Graves savored the sound of it. “I think Percival will like fresh-baked cookies better than cookie dough,” he said.

“Everyone loves raw cookie dough,” said Dorothy. “Let me show you the spell to bake them.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. I still set toast on fire.”

“Nonsense,” Dorothy said firmly. “Do you want to learn how to cook or not? You can’t cook anything if you’re afraid of setting it on fire.”

“I’m not _afraid_ of setting things on fire, I just do,” argued Credence.

“This from the man who can do _wordless_ spell casting _without a wand,”_ Dorothy said. She put her hands on her hips.

Credence folded his arms across his chest.

Fuck, Graves thought. There was way too much adorable happening in his kitchen. He suspected that if anyone could bottle this moment up, they could use it as an explosion of weaponized cute. They could call it Dementor's Bane and market it to the support staff for wizarding prisons.

He liked it more than he thought he would. Credence talking comfortably with someone else: Credence on equal footing with someone who’d grown up with magic. The adorable domesticity of it appealed to him too, because this was _his_ lover – his fiancé – whose belly was round with their child, preparing food for their family.

Graves couldn’t remember the last time he'd had a lover he felt this at ease with. Theseus, maybe, although theirs was a wartime bond and not what anyone would describe as _easy._ He’d never seen Theseus in a kitchen, much less _his._ Graves wasn’t even sure Theseus knew how to cook. He couldn’t imagine being domestic with Theseus; their relationship was based on mutual orgasms and a desperate need to prove that they were both still alive. They were better friends than lovers; anything else would have been unhealthy, after the war.

Still. There was something about the sight of Credence in their kitchen that sent a lightning bolt of desire through his nervous system and straight to his cock. He wanted to shoo everyone else out of the room and take Credence there on the kitchen table, to spread Credence out on the floor and worship between his thighs with his fingers, his mouth, his cock.

“I am a terrible human being,” Graves muttered.

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘dirty old man,’” Seraphina said helpfully. She knew him well enough to know _exactly_ what he was thinking.

Graves hissed something rude under his breath, because she was right. He was a dirty old man, especially compared with the two gorgeous young things in his kitchen.

“Percival!’ Credence said, noticing their presence. “And Seraphina. Hello.” He beamed indiscriminately at them both. “Who won the argument?”

“I did,” Seraphina said smugly.

“We weren’t arguing,” Graves protested.

“So all the shouting coming from your office was ...?”

“Just how Seraphina and I communicate,” Graves said smoothly.

Seraphina covered her snicker with magnificent aplomb. “He’s not wrong about that,” she told Credence, a trifle apologetically.

Credence huffed a wolf-laugh. “Have you met Dorothy Collins?” he asked. “Her husband is on Percival’s team.”

“Not officially,” Seraphina said, extending one hand for Dorothy to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Collins.”

Dorothy squeaked something incoherent, shook Seraphina's hand, and retreated to hide behind Credence, whom she’d clearly designated the least intimidating person in the room.

“I should head back to work,” Seraphina said regretfully. She Disapparated smoothly, leaving Graves to face the explosion of cute all on his own.

This was, Graves felt, probably his cue to leave. He wasn’t entirely certain that his famed willpower was good enough to stop him from ravishing Credence in their kitchen.

“I’ll be in my study,” he said. “Do let me know when you’d like to leave, Mrs. Collins. It would be my honor to escort you home.”

“Did Alex put you up to that?” Dorothy asked, sounding unamused and a little annoyed.

“Should he have?” Graves asked.

Dorothy exchanged a look with Credence. “No, of course not,” she said. “Thank you, Director Graves.”

She was lying. Graves _knew_ she was lying, although he didn’t know about what.

Still, if she and Credence had reached the stage of keeping secrets already, that boded well for their friendship.

“I’ll be in my study,” he said again, and retreated.

 

*

 

Graves managed not to hex anyone during the press conference. He also managed to stick to Seraphina’s pre-approved script, and did not tell anyone that he thought they had their head shoved so far up their ass it was a wonder they ever saw daylight.

“Whoever invented press conferences should be cursed,” he seethed, stalking into the elevator.

Red snorted. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it!” Graves shot back.

Red rolled his eyes. “Wizards,” he said. “So melodramatic.”

“You like that we’re melodramatic,” Graves reminded him. “You think it’s funny.”

“I think it’s _hysterical,”_ Red corrected. “You should’ve hexed that moron from the _Ghost,_ though.”

Graves wondered, not for the first time, if the MACUSA elves had some kind of telepathic link. Their information network was terrifyingly efficient. And it would explain why Red, who rarely left his elevator, knew what a jackass the reporter from the _Ghost_ had been.

“I’ve got a better target in mind,” he said.

“Ah,” said Red, and jabbed the button for Interrogations. “So you do. You gonna kill him?”

Graves raised an eyebrow. “It would be premeditated murder, if I did.” And wouldn’t the DPSI enjoy raking him over the coals for _that._

“As long as he’s breathing, he’s a threat to us,” Red pointed out, merciless.

Graves had known Red long enough to hear the things Red didn’t say.

_He’s a threat to MACUSA: to our people. He’ll twist them and he’ll hurt them and he’ll kill them, and we cannot let that happen. The threat must be eliminated._

“No,” Graves said quietly. “He’s not.”

_I’ll kill him before it comes to that. He doesn’t get to hurt any of my people ever again._

Red heard him, and nodded. “It’s good to have you back, sir.”

“Since when do you call me sir?” Graves asked.

“You’ve earned it,” Red told him. He pressed a fist over his heart and held it up, echoing the Aurors salute.

Graves stared at him. The elevator slowed, then stopped. He put his fist in the air, just like Red’s, and drew it back, pressing it to his heart. He bowed, fist still pressed to his heart, the way he might have to Seraphina.

The elevator doors slid open.

“Go,” Red told him.

Graves went.

 

*

 

“So,” Graves said, taking the seat across from Grindelwald. “I hear you wanted to talk to me. Let’s talk.”

Grindelwald had a set of magic-suppressing handcuffs around his wrists, which were chained to the table in front of him. The cuffs were goblin-forged steel and padded with sheepskin and silk, to keep them from chafing no matter how much he struggled.

Graves had spent the first week and a half of captivity wearing magic-suppressing handcuffs – his own, ironically – that weren’t anywhere near as comfortable. He’d broken his thumb to get free, and might have managed it if Grindelwald hadn’t caught him. The rest of that week had been spent with the cuffs spelled ever so slightly too small, and his skin had been rubbed raw and red by the time Grindelwald shoved him into his basement prison.

Grindelwald followed his gaze. “Not quite to my taste, but to each their own.”

Graves couldn’t tell if Grindelwald meant that the cuffs weren’t to his sartorial tastes or his sexual ones. He leaned back in his seat and waited, making his body language go loose and easy as a wampus cat in a patch of sunshine. He could wait.

“I suppose you’re enjoying this,” Grindelwald said.

Graves bared his teeth in something that was very definitely not a smile. _“Immensely.”_

“Hm. You would.” Grindelwald looked away from Graves then, letting his mismatched eyes travel around the room.

Hughes and Summersea were stationed next to the door. Graves had argued for a private interrogation; he hadn’t wanted Grindelwald anywhere near any of his people ever again. Seraphina hadn’t even let him finish the sentence before she told him no, and Hughes had informed him that he was a fucking idiot who was clearly thinking with his little head rather than the big one if he thought even for a second that that was ever going to happen. Summersea had given him a flat, judgmental look and reminded him that it was protocol to have back-up during interrogations where the suspect was liable to turn violent.

“Interesting,” Grindelwald said, letting his gaze linger on Summersea and Hughes.

Graves had his back to the door they were both guarding, but he didn’t need to be able to see them to read their expressions. Summersea, he knew, would be stone-faced and impassive in ways that made statues look positively lively by comparison. Hughes was probably wearing her best _try me, fucker_ expression, if she wasn’t giving Grindelwald the finger. Neither of them would betray the slightest hint of fear in front of a suspect, not even one who was the wizarding world’s most notorious dark wizard.

“Win’s here to Stun me if I try to attack you, isn’t she?” Grindelwald said. “Which means John is here to make sure I don’t get up again after she does.” He smiled pleasantly at Graves.

 _I know your team,_ that smile said. _I know their strengths, their weaknesses._

_I know where they’re vulnerable, and it’s all your fucking fault._

Graves swallowed down the surge of rage and smiled back. Grindelwald thought he could distract Graves with unvoiced threats. He was wrong.

You know my team, Graves thought. But I know _you._

“Speed and stopping power is a useful combination,” Graves acknowledged.

“Hm,” Grindelwald said. “True enough. If I thought it would breed true, I might have tried for a lieutenant out of the pair of them.”

Someone – probably Hughes – inhaled sharply.

Graves didn’t take his eyes off Grindelwald. “If you can’t be silent, Hughes, I will have Collins take your place.”

“That’s not necessary, sir,” Hughes said, her voice very even.

“See that it isn’t.” Graves lifted an eyebrow at Grindelwald. “Exactly how much time _do_ you spend thinking about other people’s sex lives?” he inquired. “I’m just curious. I’d have thought that was a bit vulgar for your tastes; it’s a bit voyeuristic.”

 _“Americans,”_ Grindelwald said. “It’s not about _sex,_ Percival, it’s about power. Bringing together the right bloodlines to produce strong heirs.” He sighed. “The rest of the civilized world understands this. Why must you Americans persist in being so foolish?”

“We’re not much for inbreeding,” Graves said. “It makes sense, I suppose, that your interest in everyone else’s sex life is purely academic. It’s not like you’ve got one of your own to focus on, now is it?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Percival,” chided Grindelwald.

Got you, thought Graves. There was a faint edge to Grindelwald’s voice that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t annoyed or angry yet, but that could change in a heartbeat. Would change, if Graves had any say in the matter. Angry men made mistakes. They slipped up and gave things away.

“Oh, dear,” Graves said, voice thick with false sympathy. “Has it been that long?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Grindelwald said.

“Do genocidal madmen?”

That got him an actual glare. When their positions had been reversed, now was about when the torture would have started.

“No,” said Grindelwald.

“Good thing you’ve got nothing to tell, then,” Graves pointed out. “He wants nothing to do with you, does he? The man you think is the second most powerful wizard in the world. Charming epithet, by the way. Everyone wants to be told they’re second best.”

“He’s not second best,” Grindelwald snapped. “He could be more powerful than your pathetic little brain could imagine, if he didn’t insist on hamstringing himself with useless hanger’s on in the name of _family.”_

“More powerful than you?”

“More powerful than anyone, except our son,” Grindelwald asserted.

Mercy fucking Lewis. This again.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Graves asked. “That he chooses to stay with his family rather than try to build a new one with you?”

“What little remains of his family wants nothing to do with him now,” Grindelwald said, dismissive. “It bothers me that he chooses to be weak when he could be strong.”

“So it doesn’t bother you that he refuses to choose you.”

Grindelwald laughed at him. “Are you trying to manipulate me, Percival?” He tilted his head and considered Graves. “No, that’s not your style. You’re too straightforward for that. You want to make me angry, because angry men make mistakes.”

Graves could practically hear Grindelwald mocking him. _You think you know me, Percival? I know you, too._

No, Graves thought, you really don’t.

“I’m just making conversation,” he said mildly. “What _exactly_ were you planning, Grindelwald? This child you claim you’ve Seen – how exactly does he come to be?”

“I didn’t think _you’d_ need a lesson on the birds and the bees, given how much you enjoy mounting Credence,” Grindelwald said dryly. “How is he, by the way? Is my general growing strong?”

“Grieving for his sister,” Graves said.

Grindelwald hissed. “That was not right,” he said, echoing what he’d said in the tunnels. “I tried to stop them.”

“No,” Graves said. “It wasn’t. But what you would have done to the girl was worse.”

“I would have sheltered her,” Grindelwald snarled. “I would have kept her safe!”

“You would have made her a weapon,” Graves snarled back. “She was a little girl, Grindelwald. A _child._ You couldn’t separate the Obscurus from the host, so there was no way for _you_ to use her power. But it’s not like you to throw an asset away. You’d have found a way to use her, one way or another. You’d have made her your weapon, a mindless animal taught to kill at your command. And then, when she was old enough – if she lived long enough – you’d have turned your attentions on her the way you turned them on Credence and me, the way you _want_ to turn them on Albus Dumbledore, and you’d have tried to see if being an Obscurial breeds true.”

He’d figured out who the second most powerful wizard in the world was, the fifth time he’d gone through the case files. Newt’s statement mentioned Grindelwald asking him about Albus Dumbledore, a man Graves had never met and was only aware of in passing. Grindelwald had slipped up.

Now he just needed to see if he was right.

“I would _never,”_ Grindelwald hissed, high spots of color on his pale cheeks. “I am no rapist.”

“Neither was I, until you put a wand to Credence’s head and made me one,” Graves said flatly.

There was another sharp intake of breath behind him. Summersea, this time. Graves wondered if he’d have Summersea’s resignation on his desk tomorrow. There were some lines that couldn’t be uncrossed; things you couldn’t unknow. Summersea followed Graves because held the same principles that Graves did. He trusted Graves to do the right thing; that Graves wouldn’t compromise his morals.

“You took that choice from Credence _and_ from me, so don’t you _dare_ sit there and pretend you’ve got the moral high ground when we _both_ know that your _never_ is a lie and that you’ll do whatever it takes to accomplish your _greater good.”_

 _“Not to him,”_ Grindelwald roared. “Never him.”

Graves watched him, keeping his breathing even and calm. Grindelwald was half out of his chair, and only the fact that he was shackled to the table kept him from lunging for Graves’ throat.

Graves waited for one heartbeat, then two. He counted out twenty-five of them total before he rose to his feet and said: _“Liar.”_

“You know _nothing,”_ Grindelwald snapped. “How _dare_ you speak of Albus as though you know him.”

“I wrote to him,” Graves said. More accurately, he’d had Newt write to Dumbledore on his behalf, once he realized who Dumbledore was. Newt actually knew the man, and had been more than happy to provide an introduction. “He wrote back.” That was a lie, but Newt had assured him that Dumbledore would. He smiled, thin and mean. “How long has it been, since he’s returned one of your letters?”

Grindelwald swore at him in a mixture of German and Russian, using the sort of invective Graves hadn’t heard since the war. He reached out, clearly trying to cast some kind of spell, and whatever it was was Dark enough to make the failsafe on the magic-suppressing handcuffs activate. They glowed white hot for a second as they absorbed the spell. The scent of burning silk permeated the room.

 _“Petrificus totalus,”_ Graves snapped. He unbound the cuffs, flicking them away without touching them. He cast a numbing spell on reflex, because MACUSA didn’t mistreat its prisoners. The burnt silk would need to be scrubbed from Grindelwald’s skin and his wrists would need to be bandaged before the cuffs could be reapplied.

Grindelwald could perform some wandless magic. He couldn’t have passed for Graves if he couldn’t. As long as his hands were unbound, he was a threat.

Graves transfigured the cuffs into a collar, which he snapped around Grindelwald’s throat along with a fresh layer of silk to keep it from chafing. He didn’t dare remove the _petrificus totalus,_ not yet. He treated Grindelwald’s wrists himself, because the thought of bringing one of the Bluebird’s people into Grindelwald’s orbit made him want to wrap his hands around Grindelwald’s throat and _squeeze._ He was no Healer, but he’d done his share of patching up wounded soldiers during the war and injured Aurors after. He had the skills to treat Grindelwald.

He put Grindelwald in a _petrificus partialus_ once he was finished.

“Your son is never going to exist,” Graves said softly. “I will put Dumbledore under a full security detail for the rest of his life if I have to. You’re never going to get anywhere near him ever again. All his brilliance, all his _light,_ those things aren’t meant for you. Not anymore.

“My son will never serve yours. Your greater good will never come to pass. Do you understand me?”

Grindelwald stared at him, mismatched eyes full of hate. “Be careful flinging those _nevers_ around, Percival,” he replied. “We both know you’re a liar, too.”

“I’m a man of my word, Grindelwald. You like that about me. You think it makes me easy to manipulate.”

“So here we are,” Grindelwald said quietly. “Liars and honest men and manipulators. I couldn’t break you, and you can’t break me. Do you really think you can hold me?”

It was the same question he’d asked Seraphina in the tunnels. Graves gave him Seraphina’s answer. “We’ll do our best.” He considered Grindelwald, who looked equal parts furious and gutted – easy prey for one of the Legilimens interrogators. People were easy to read when they were hurting. “Did you know?” he asked.

Grindelwald frowned at him. The _petrificus partialus_ allowed for speech and limited facial movement. “Know what?”

“The androgenesis spell you used on Credence could have killed him,” Graves said. “Probably would have, according to the Healers at St. Brigid’s, and the child along with him.”

No. Graves could see it in his eyes. Grindelwald had no idea what that spell could have cost, on top of the lives he’d already taken to cast it.

“You hurt people, Grindelwald. It’s what men like you do. You would have hurt Dumbledore in your ignorance, and he would have suffered for it.” He looked back at Summersea and Hughes. “Take him back to his cell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys.
> 
> The charm Dorothy gives Credence is based on the [Penzeys Spices Wedding Charm.](https://www.amazon.com/Penzeys-Spices-Wedding-Charms/dp/B00TOX4W08) The explanation is in the product description.
> 
> I also spent some time amusing myself thinking of potential squares for Auror bingo. The list I came up with is [on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161290043086/auror-bingo) If anyone has any additional suggestions, let me know!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does not need warnings, except for Graves' Epic Martyr Complex, which you already know about. ;)

Graves poured two fingers of Roanoke Vanishing Rye Whiskey for himself and for Hughes, Firewhiskey for Summersea and a Butterbeer for Collins, who had a sweet tooth and no head for alcohol. He looked around his office. It was unchanged from what it had been, and part of him itched to change everything just because he could.

Summersea walked into his office, his expression carefully neutral. Graves had expected Win to be the first one through the door, but Summersea had longer legs. Hughes was a second behind him, wearing a thunderous expression. Collins trailed in her wake, looking upset and confused.

“What the fuck, boss,” Hughes said.

Graves sighed. “Close the door,” he told Collins. “Would anyone like to take a seat?” He’d conjured up a third chair; there were normally only two in his office.

Hughes folded her arms across her chest. “No.”

“Win,” Summersea said quietly, sitting down. Collins followed suit, looking more upset by the minute. Graves made a note to have Hughes bully Collins into working on his poker face.

Hughes hissed something rude under her breath and flung herself into her chair in a manner that reminded Graves of his niece Gwen, when she was feeling melodramatic.

Graves picked up his glass. “I know you’ve all got questions,” he said. “The next hour’s yours. Ask.”

 _“What the fuck, boss,”_ Hughes said again. “What the fuck was that – that _mindfuck_ back there, seriously, what the shit. I feel like I need a shower. A hundred showers.”

“Grindelwald knows he can get to me,” Graves said. “Now he knows I can get to him, too.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Hughes hissed, swiping her glass and draining it.

Graves winced. That was no way to treat good whiskey and she knew it. He flicked his fingers to activate the refilling charm on the glasses. He had a feeling they’d all need it.

Collins cradled his butterbeer. Summersea hadn’t touched his glass, which wasn’t a good sign. It meant John hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted to stay to hear Graves’ answers.

Graves took a sip of his whiskey and waited.

“Did you rape him?” Summersea asked, dark eyes fixed on Graves’ face.

The question felt like a physical blow. “Technically,” Graves said, hating the qualifier. “Yes. That first night.”

“Did he _what?”_ Collins demanded. “Who?”

“Credence,” said Summersea.

“What? John, you can’t be serious,” Collins said, his honest face suffused with abject horror.

“Tell him what you told Grindelwald, Percival,” Summersea said quietly.

“Grindelwald said that he wasn’t a rapist,” Graves said evenly. “And I told him that I wasn’t one either, until he put a wand to Credence’s head and made me one.”

“No,” Collins said, shaking his head. “No. Credence _loves_ you. He wouldn’t love you if you’d – not if you’d done _that.”_ He moved to get out of his chair.

Hughes caught his wrist. Judging from Collins’ wince, she was gripping it hard enough to leave bruises. “Sit down,” she said quietly. Too quietly. With Hughes, quiet words were dangerous ones, as was a lack of profanity. It meant she’d gone beyond furious into the quiet place she went when she was dueling, when everything had been reduced to threats that needed to be assessed and eliminated. 

Collins knew that as well as Graves did. He sat. When Hughes was certain he wouldn’t get up again, she released his wrist.

“You were questioned under veritaserum and the Flores Draught,” Hughes said, still too quiet. “Your testimony indicated that Grindelwald was the one who initiated anything between you and Credence. He provided you with desiderata to facilitate those goals. Did you lie about that?”

“No,” Graves said.

Win nodded. “Grindelwald took the choice from both of you; that’s what you said earlier. Were you lying about that?”

“No,” Graves said.

“Then why the fuck are you taking the blame for what he did, Percival?” she demanded. “You _idiot!_ It’s not like you had any choice in the matter. Grindelwald might not have fucked you, but he still raped you both.”

“That’s not –” Graves began.

“Yes,” she interrupted. “It is.”

“Ah,” Summersea said, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He reached out and took the glass of Firewhiskey from Graves’ desk. “You feel responsible,” he observed, quiet and measured. “Because you’re Percival Graves, and you feel responsible for everything. You couldn’t consent any more than Credence could, but you still hold yourself accountable because that’s what you do.”

“I hold myself accountable because I _am_ accountable,” Graves said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Hughes. “How exactly are you accountable for what Grindelwald did to you?”

“I agreed to do what Grindelwald wanted,” Graves said flatly. “I manipulated the situation until it occurred on my terms.”

“What was the alternative?” she asked, merciless. “If you hadn’t fucked Credence that night, what would Grindelwald have done?”

“Tortured him to death and made me watch.”

“And if you lied, and said you fucked him when you hadn’t, what about then?”

Graves had never actually considered that as an option. He wondered how long he could have gotten away with it. Not very, given Grindelwald’s surveillance spells. A week, perhaps two.

“He’d have put us both under Imperius. He threatened to do that anyway, when I asked him for the desiderata. Grindelwald would have Imperiused Credence into using his mouth on me until I could be put to stud, and then he would have Imperiused me into following through. I … I would have fought him,” Graves said. “Maybe thrown it off, maybe not. He might have broken my mind.” Or he might not have. The same fortress that kept MACUSA’s secrets safe made it damn hard for him to be Imperiused. Not impossible, though. No one’s will was that strong.

“Percival,” Summersea said. “You’re not accountable for what Grindelwald made you do, or for doing what you needed to in order to survive. You manipulated the situation until it occurred on your terms, yes, but that doesn’t mean you were in control. The only one who ever had _that_ was Grindelwald. He’s the one to blame.”

Graves sipped his whiskey, because the alternative was breaking down and crying. Even now, his team still believed in him. They _supported_ him, knowing that he’d violated their trust and told Grindelwald how to fool them into thinking that he was the real Percival Graves. Rationally, what they said made sense, but … 

None of them had been there. They didn’t know what it was like. They didn’t know what it was like to match wits with Grindelwald; how hard it was to win even the slightest concession.

“I think you should talk to Credence,” Collins said. “I think if we asked him if you raped him, he’d say something different.”

“He said that you were kind,” Summersea said. “That’s how he described that night. He said Grindelwald made you choose between pleasure or pain, and that you chose not to hurt him, or to watch him get hurt.”

“He really loves you, sir,” Collins said earnestly. “When we were in the hospital, all he cared about was you.”

That sounded like Credence. “He has the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever met,” Graves said. “I don’t deserve him.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Hughes told him. “And your head’s all fucked up because you’ve spent the last five and a half months playing mindgames with the albino prick.”

“My head is fine,” Graves said.

“It really isn’t, boss.”

Graves sighed. “The next few days are likely to be … unpleasant. I am not proud of the things I did in order to survive, and between the _Ghost_ and Grindelwald, you’re likely to hear about all of them in excruciating detail. I am sorry for that.”

“Merlin’s beard, Percival,” Summersea said, a faint hint of anger resurfacing. “Do you even listen to yourself sometimes?”

“We’re the ones who should be apologizing to you, sir,” Collins said. “We should have noticed that something was wrong. You – _he_ – was tense and not like you, once he got back from Europe, but we figured it was just you getting wrapped up in a case, because you do that sometimes. But after that … We should have known better.”

The files Seraphina had given him mentioned that Grindelwald had left for Europe – ostensibly to liaise with European MLE on the hunt for Grindelwald himself, now that it looked like Grindelwald was turning his attention to the Americas – shortly after assuming Graves’ identity. It explained Grindelwald’s near constant presence, those first couple of weeks, and why he kept badgering Graves about his team. Grindelwald had bought himself just enough time to acquire more information and fully adopt Graves’ mannerisms, while simultaneously creating an excuse for any behavioral oddities. It was a terrifyingly simple, effective solution. Graves wondered how many other times Grindelwald had used this particular maneuver. It didn’t bear thinking on.

“We’re Aurors,” Hughes added. “More than that, we’re your fucking team. We should have seen through Grindelwald’s bullshit.”

“We’re sorry,” Summersea said. “So very sorry, Percival. If we had noticed –”

“No,” Graves interrupted firmly. “Don’t you _dare_ play the ‘what if’ game, John. That’s how Aurors get themselves killed, and that’s all you lot would have done if you’d called Grindelwald on his lies. I told him how to pass for me because if he couldn’t, you’d have seen through him and he would have killed you, and I could not live with that. Grindelwald killed Norton because he thought Norton _might_ have suspected something, not because Norton actually did. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“Neither do you,” Summersea told him. “You did what you had to, to keep us safe.”

“Credence said the same thing,” Collins said. “That if we’d noticed something was wrong, Grindelwald would have killed us. I guess Credence was right about that, seeing as Grindelwald killed Jamie. But he also told me _as long as you’re alive, you can make things better. You can keep fighting. More importantly, you can keep Grindelwald and men like him from hurting anyone else ever again._ I think he was right about that part. If you can forgive us for failing you, then we can forgive you for telling Grindelwald how to lie to us. And maybe we can all work together to make sure that Grindelwald never hurts anyone else ever again.”

“It’s not going to be that simple,” Graves said.

Hughes snorted and drained her glass again. “Of course it’s not,” she said.

“But it’s a start,” Summersea finished for her.

 

*

 

The waiting was the worst part, Credence decided. It was almost like his first couple of days in their cell, when he kept expecting Mr. Grindelwald to drag him back to the church and to Ma. Wanted him to, even, because without him there to draw Ma’s ire, who would look after Modesty?

Modesty was dead now, just like Ma and Chastity. Thinking about her still hurt like an open wound, but even that wasn’t enough to distract Credence from his worry. Nothing was. Not Dorothy’s morning visit, or the books Dindrane had left him, or his own mostly successful attempt at cooking an evening meal the No-Maj way.

Percival should have taken more time off work, he thought. He was still healing, no matter what he thought about the matter. He _definitely_ shouldn’t be interrogating Mr. Grindelwald.

Mr. Grindelwald had hurt Percival before. Mr. Grindelwald _liked_ hurting Percival. What if he tried to do it again? What if Percival was at St. Brigid’s now? Dorothy had told him that Aurors spouses were always notified, but he and Percival weren’t properly married yet, so what if no one told him because they didn’t think they had to?

Percival would come back to him. He’d promised to. So far, Percival had kept his promises. And Credence trusted Percival; he did. He _knew_ Percival.

But he knew Mr. Grindelwald, too. And it had not been _that_ long since Mr. Grindelwald had flung Percival into their cell, bruised and bleeding and broken. He could still remember what it felt like, to be exhausted and terrified all the time, convinced that Percival would die and that Mr. Grindelwald would steal his son and Credence would be left with nothing and no one.

Percival would come home, and everything was going to be fine. There was nothing to worry about. Mr. Grindelwald wasn’t going to get free. He couldn’t.

Could he?

“This is stupid,” Credence announced, because the waiting and the silence were going to drive him crazy. “Your papa’s being silly. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Your –” he hesitated, because he wasn’t sure what title to give Percival, or even which one to use for himself. He’d defaulted to Papa, because it seemed less intimidating than Father or Pa or Da, but he didn’t know if it was the correct one. Newt had referred to himself as the little snakes’ mummy, so maybe it was okay for wizards to use female titles.

He had the female role in this; maybe the female title was the appropriate one.

“Your mama’s being silly,” he said, just to try it out. _Mama_ was a little too close to _Ma._ He was not – would never be – Ma. “No,” he decided. “That’s not right. I’m your papa, and Percival’s your daddy or your father, whatever he wants to be called.” Percival and Dindrane both referred to their father as Father, so that was probably the right title. “Your father’s coming home, and everything will be fine,” he told the baby, because it was better than talking to himself. “There’s nothing to worry about, except for Mr. Grindelwald, but Mr. Grindelwald can’t hurt anyone anymore. Your father will make sure of that.”

Credence thought it was just nerves at first. He’d been anxious ever since Percival left for work, but anxiety was a tightness in his throat and chest. This was something else: a faint hint of butterfly wings in his belly.

Butterflies.

“Oh,” Credence said, resting both hands against his stomach. That was – that was the _baby._ That was his son. _Moving._ Saying hello, maybe, or trying to reassure him that everything would be fine. That thought made him laugh, breathless and delighted. “You’re just like your father,” he said.

He couldn’t feel anything from the outside. The books said that happened later, along with a whole host of other symptoms Credence was not looking forward to. But _he_ could feel the baby moving, a little fluttery feeling that was strange and wondrous.

For the first time all day, Credence let himself believe that everything was going to be alright.

 

*

 

Percival arrived home just after sunset, looking equal parts murderous and exhausted. Credence wondered if he and Mr. Grindelwald had fallen back into their old routine of baiting one another when he caught sight of the paper.

Credence really hoped that the wizarding world had another newspaper, because he was starting to think that any copy of the _New York Ghost_ that came into Percival’s orbit should be set on fire immediately, purely in the interests of self-preservation. Percival did not have a rational response to the _New York Ghost_ or its editor-in-chief. He wasn’t sure _why_ Percival and Donaldson hated one another so much; there was some history there that Percival hadn’t explained. Credence hadn’t pressed him about it, but he was starting to think maybe he needed to.

“Credence,” Percival said, voice hoarse.

Credence froze. “What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked. Percival sounded the way he did after Mr. Grindelwald hurt him; he sounded like he’d been screaming.

“Talking,” said Percival. “Lots of talking.” He opened his arms and folded Credence into a hug, some of the tension bleeding out of him as he rested his head against Credence’s shoulder. “Missed you.”

“We missed you too,” Credence said, trying not to cling.

Percival pulled back, reaching up to cup Credence’s face in the palm of one hand. He stared at Credence like he was trying to memorize what Credence looked like, and then he kissed him.

Credence thought sometimes, if he had a hundred years with Percival, that still wasn’t enough time to catalogue all the ways Percival liked to kiss. He’d grown to like the comfortable, reassuring kisses they traded with one another in the safe house, because he thought that was how married people _should_ kiss. (Privately. In their own home.) This was one of the other kinds. Percival’s mouth was a brand, hot and wanting, threatening to light a fire in Credence’s bones and consume him from the inside out. His tongue stole into Credence’s mouth to taste him that way, too.

Percival could have him like that, if that was what he wanted. He was Percival’s, inside and out, every bit of him Percival’s to use. To love, Credence corrected, because he knew that Percival would never use him. He wasn’t a thing to Percival. He was a person, and he mattered.

“Love you,” Credence gasped between kisses.

“Love you,” Percival replied, bending his head to suck a wet, red mark on Credence’s neck. Credence moaned as Percival scraped his teeth over the sensitized skin. Percival nipped him, just to make Credence shout something breathless and profane, and layered apologetic kisses over that tiny sting.

Percival slid his hands down Credence’s back and let them rest, possessive, on Credence’s backside. Then he lifted Credence up, turning them both so he could press Credence back against the wall and pin him there.

“Percival!” Credence yelped, clinging to Percival’s back and wrapping his legs around Percival’s waist in an effort to remain upright now that his feet were no longer on the ground.

“I’ve got you,” Percival promised, and he did.

“Oh,” Credence said, because his backside was positioned against where Percival was hard and hot and wanting, and he could grind down against Percival in slow, filthy circles. 

Percival made a low rumbling noise of pleasure. Credence grinned. He liked it when Percival growled.

“Growl for me,” he commanded, still moving his hips against Percival.

“Fuck,” Percival rumbled. “The things you do to me. You have no idea.”

“Don’t I?” Credence asked, grinding down a bit harder. “I have _some_ ideas.” He kept one arm hooked around Percival’s back for balance and clawed at Percival’s tie and the buttons of his waistcoat. “You wear too many layers,” he complained. “You wear them well, you really do, but _you wear too many layers.”_ He wanted to feel Percival’s skin against his own and Percival, Credence realized with a semi-hysterical laugh, hadn’t even managed to get his _coat_ off. “Down, Percival.”

“What?”

Credence huffed a laugh. “Put me down.”

Percival made a vague humming noise of disagreement. “Don’t want to. I like you just where you are.”

“We are not having sex in the hallway,” Credence said.

“It’s our house,” Percival countered. “We can have sex wherever we want.”

“Yes, but we greet people in this hallway,” Credence pointed out, trying to figure out how to get his feet back on the ground without getting dropped. He wound up sliding one leg down the length of Percival’s body and squirming free. “People you work with. One of whom is a Legilimens. You might be able to keep Queenie out of your head, but I can’t, and I can only think about apples for so long.”

Percival laughed, helpless and fond. “Did Goldstein tell you not to think about apples?”

“She’s really clever,” Credence said. “But you know that already, don’t you? You wouldn’t want her on your team if she wasn’t.”

Percival kissed him again, hungry and wanting. The heat of it was tempered now, the sort of banked fire that would burn for hours. “I don’t really want to talk about Goldstein right now.”

“About who?” Credence asked, feigning ignorance just to make Percival smile. “Take me to bed, Percival.”

“Yes, dear.”

 

*

 

Credence thought that he knew what it was like to make love to Percival. He was very wrong about that, as it turned out. What he and Percival had shared in their cell was just the tip of the iceberg. Credence wondered, hazy and overstimulated, if it was different – _better_ – because they were both free, or if he’d simply underestimated Percival’s capacity for love. He’d thought, that first night and all the nights after, that it could not get better than it was, because what could be better than the way Percival made Credence’s body sing with joy beneath him, or the joy with which he moved his own?

How stupid he’d been, to think that _that_ was how Percival Graves made love.

Percival grinned as he got Credence splayed out beneath him, without a stitch on either of them. His fine clothes had been left to wrinkle in an obvious trail from the hallway to their bedroom. Credence wasn’t sure where his own clothes had ended up, and in that moment found he didn’t care. Not with Percival’s mouth on him, tasting him everywhere. He followed his mouth with his hands, until it felt like he’d worshiped every inch of Credence’s skin with both hands and mouth. It was too much and it wasn’t enough. Credence didn’t know how to deal with the conflicting duality, so he just wrapped his arms around Percival’s broad shoulders and clung to him as he tipped over the edge of ecstasy and shattered into tiny pieces.

“Percival,” he said. It was the only word he knew. “Percival, _please.”_ He didn’t know what he was asking for, but he was sure that Percival would give it to him.

“Hush, darling, I’ve got you,” Percival said, stroking one hand up and down Credence’s side, reassuring. “I’ve got you,” he repeated, bending down to kiss Credence’s sweaty face: the corner of his eye, the tip of his nose, the curve of his jaw. “You’re so fucking gorgeous it hurts to look at you sometimes,” he said. “If I were better with words, I would write sonnets about you. The fire in your eyes, the cut-glass perfection of your cheekbones, your mouth.”

Credence made a faint noise of protest, because he knew what he looked like, and he did not look anything like _that._

“I know,” Percival murmured, dragging his lips down Credence’s neck. “That’s now how you see yourself, but it’s how you should. It’s how _I_ see you.”

“You’re biased,” Credence croaked. “Love is blind.”

“No,” Percival murmured. “Love sees true.”

Credence did not know if he believed Percival, but he _wanted_ to. He stroked the scar on Percival’s cheek – the one Percival had gotten trying to protect him, the one that matched the scar on his arm, where he’d taken the brunt of the slashing hex. Wizards didn’t seem to have much use for religion, but Credence still prayed that those would be the only scars Percival wore in his defense.

Percival turned his head so he could press a kiss into the scarred palm of Credence’s hand. Credence curled his fingers around it, like it was something he could hold onto.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Percival said, pressing the words into Credence’s skin like a secret. “You’re a gift.” He kissed the swell of Credence’s stomach and moved ever lower. “I can’t believe you chose to give yourself to me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Credence said, arching into Percival’s touch. Every inch of his skin felt oversensitized. He felt lit up, like all he needed was a spark and he would burn. “Who wouldn’t choose you?” he asked, making a vague hand gesture at Percival’s everything. “You’re handsome and righteous and kind.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” Percival pointed out. “Everyone else thinks I’m an asshole.”

Credence ignored that, on the grounds that it was clearly nonsense. No one who met Percival could possibly think that. “I don’t know what you see in me,” Credence confessed. “You’re powerful and wealthy and you could have probably anyone in the world you wanted.”

“The only one I want – the only one I’m _ever_ going to want – is you, Credence,” Percival promised, clever fingers stroking the skin behind Credence’s balls, gradually moving farther back. He made no move to press inside, not yet, just rubbed his thumb over Credence, teasing. “I knew I wanted your heart the second night we met,” he admitted. “I wanted the strength of it, of you. I wanted your kindness. I wanted the joyous wonder you have when we make love, and your delight in magic. I wanted _you,_ all of you, and here you are.”

“Oh, God, Percival,” said Credence. He trembled beneath Percival’s touch, the weight of his regard. It was all just _words,_ but he was as wound up as if Percival had put his mouth on his cock. “Touch me, please, I need –”

“I know,” Percival crooned. “I’ve got you. You can have anything you want, just ask for it.”

How, Credence wondered crazily, was he supposed to ask for anything when Percival had him so wound up he could barely _think,_ much less form coherent sentences? He tried to marshal his thoughts. He wanted to come. He wanted Percival to make love to him. He wanted to feel the way his body stretched around the heavy fullness of Percival’s cock and he wanted to feel Percival moving inside him.

“Inside,” he managed.

He felt the familiar warm brush of Percival’s magic along with a sudden slick feeling between his legs, liquid and warm. It was just enough like feeling Percival come inside him to finish him off, his cock spilling in hot spurts all over his belly, untouched.

Credence wasn’t sure how long it took conscious thought to return after that. A few minutes, maybe longer.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he thought. Blasphemy was less of a sin than swearing, which was what he really wanted to do.

Wizards didn’t blaspheme by the saints, though. Not Christian ones, at any rate.

That was something to think on for later.

“That was –” Credence tried to find some word that wasn’t totally inadequate and failed miserably. “Wow.”

“Wow is good,” Percival agreed, pressing a kiss against Credence’s temples. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Credence said immediately. “Kind of shivery? But in a good way.”

Percival kissed him again. “I’ll be right back.”

Credence stared at him, nonplussed. “Where are you going?” Percival still hadn’t come yet. Credence was here and their bed was here, so where on earth could Percival possibly want to go? (Credence would feel bad about coming twice before Percival had come at all, but Percival seemed to like it that way, and who was he to argue with that? It put a guilty thrill in Credence’s stomach. He liked having all of Percival’s iron self-control focused on him.)

“Just to the kitchen,” Percival said.

“The _kitchen,”_ Credence repeated, as Percival walked out of their bedroom. He was still naked, and Credence definitely enjoyed watching his bare backside retreating. But that led to another thought, which was that Percival was now _naked and erect_ in their _kitchen._ Oh, God, he was never going to be able to have cooking lessons with Jacob and Queenie ever again, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from imagining Percival in their kitchen. Naked.

He imagined it now. It was, like most thoughts concerning Percival, a very _nice_ thought. Nudity did not seem to bother Percival. He was probably moving through their kitchen with his usual effortless confidence. The fact that he was naked only made his confidence more attractive.

What could he possibly be doing? Credence wondered if Percival’s blood had cooled, now that he was no longer driving Credence out of his mind with pleasure. Or maybe not. Maybe he had taken his cock in one big, strong hand and stroked it, right there in their kitchen. Just enough to keep himself hard until he got back to their bedroom. Credence liked that thought more than he should have.

Of course, if Percival’s blood had cooled down, maybe Credence could try putting his mouth on Percival’s cock again.

“Oh my _God,”_ Credence said, equal parts scandalized and aroused. He covered his burning red face with a pillow and resolved to learn how to put _very thick fences_ around his thoughts.

“Credence?” Percival asked, plucking the pillow away. There was a glass of water and a little bowl of strawberries on the nightstand.

“Um,” said Credence.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. Very.”

Percival still looked concerned, but he didn’t ask Credence to explain further. He climbed back into bed and offered Credence the glass of water.

Credence sat up and took it. The first sip made him realize that he actually was thirsty, and he narrowly avoided upending the glass when it refilled itself.

“Refilling charm,” Percival explained.

“Right,” Credence said, setting the glass aside. He grabbed the bowl of strawberries and held one out for Percival.

“I meant to feed these to _you,”_ Percival said with a wry twist to his mouth. He ate the strawberry anyway.

Credence fed him another one, shivering at the scrape of teeth as Percival took the berry from his fingers. The berries made Percival’s mouth look wet and red, like an invitation to sin. Credence ate a strawberry of his own. It was juicy and sweet, and he liked the way Percival’s eyes went dark when he licked the juices from his fingers.

“These are really good,” he said, eating another one. “How did you find fresh strawberries in February?” Strawberries were summer fruit. So were tomatoes. But the tomatoes they’d used in Jacob’s spaghetti sauce were red and round and ripe, not canned, and so were the strawberries.

“Magic greenhouses,” Percival said, still watching Credence eat. It was a little like the banked hunger in his eyes when he’d watched Credence eat food from the Waldorf-Astoria, that second night they’d met. Except this time it had nothing to do with the food.

“Too bad you can’t share produce,” Credence said, unthinking. “I bet rich No-Maj’s would pay a lot for fresh fruit out of season.”

“Huh,” said Percival, intrigued. His calculating expression vanished a second later, when Credence sucked two fingers into his mouth all the way down to his knuckles to get them clean.

And maybe to tease Percival a little.

The water and strawberries helped ground him again. The shivery feeling was gone now, replaced with gleeful anticipation. Percival was still mostly hard, but Credence didn’t think Percival would object if Credence wanted to try and please him with his mouth. He set the bowl of strawberries aside and said, “I want to taste you. Can I?”

“Fuck,” said Percival. “Yes. I told you, you can have anything you want. You just need to ask for it.”

Credence had already asked, and he decided it wasn’t worth repeating himself. He scooted down the bed until he was at eye level with Percival’s cock. He kissed the head of it, licking away the pearly liquid he found there. The salty flavor was a shock after the sweetness of the berries, and all the more appealing for it. Salt and sweet was a delightful combination.

He took the head of Percival’s cock in his mouth and suckled gently, mindful of his past mistakes. He did not want to choke himself by accident again, and Percival didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t swallow him down if his swearing was any indicator.

“Fuck,” Percival said. _“Fuck._ You’ll be the death of me, I swear it. Your _mouth,_ Credence. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of you, and now I’m not going to be able to forget the way it looks, stretched around my cock.”

“Fair’s fair,” Credence told him, wrapping his hand around Percival’s cock and stroking him with the rhythm he knew Percival liked. “I’m not going to be able to cook anything without thinking about you naked and hard and wanting in our kitchen.”

“Oh fucking hell,” said Percival.

Credence experimented with how far he could take Percival into his mouth. He thought, if he could figure out how to relax his throat, that he could swallow Percival down the way Percival did. He didn’t know how to do that, though, so he settled on trying to figure out what would make Percival swear and writhe beneath him.

“Stop,” Percival gasped. “Shit. Fuck. How do you want this?” he asked.

“What?” Credence asked.

“I need you to tell me what you want,” Percival said urgently. “If you want me to come in your mouth, that’s fine. More than fine. It’s fucking fantastic. I can get you off again with my fingers and my mouth, if you want. But if you want me to fuck you, then you should probably stop.”

“Oh,” said Credence, dizzy with the possibilities. He _did_ want Percival to come in his mouth, if only to return the favor. But, selfishly, he wanted the feeling of Percival inside of him more, lighting him up from the inside out. “Fuck me,” he blurted out. “Please.”

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Percival swore. “Okay.” He hauled Credence up the bed and pressed him up against the headboard, a mountain of pillows at his back. He slotted himself between Credence’s legs, fingers probing where Credence was still slick from the earlier spell. He cast it again and Credence moaned, certain he must be dripping with it now, shameless and wet. Percival shoved two fingers into him without warning, curling them automatically to press against the spot that felt like the spark of magic itself.

“I want to feel you,” Credence said. “Inside me. Tomorrow, when you’re at work. Percival, _please,_ don’t tease.”

“It’ll hurt,” Percival warned.

“It won’t,” Credence said, breathless. “You won’t hurt me. Not ever.” And if he did, well, it would be the _good_ kind of hurt. A hurt that Credence had chosen, had sought out, rather that one that someone had inflicted on him.

 _“Fuck,”_ Percival said, pupils so wide his eyes looked black. He pulled his fingers free and replaced them with his cock, pressing forward and pulling back slowly and carefully.

Oh, God, he felt enormous like this. Bigger than Credence knew he was, too big to fit inside Credence’s body, where he belonged. Credence moaned and arched back into the stretch of it, moving his hips to meet Percival as he rocked carefully in and out, opening Credence up in slow, careful thrusts.

Credence wanted to sob with how good it was. “You make me feel so good,” he gasped.

“You should always feel good,” Percival said, kissing the corner of Credence’s mouth. _“Always,_ lovely, I mean it. I want you pleasure-soaked and screaming for me and I want you purring and content. You are the one good thing in my world, and making you feel good is the least that I can do.”

Credence laughed, breathless and broken, because Percival _always_ put his pleasure first. He felt good. More than good. He felt _great,_ incandescent with pleasure and love and _Percival._

“Grindelwald _takes,”_ Percival confided, low-voiced and secretive. “It’s what he does. It’s what men like him do. But you? You give it all back, and I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve someone like you in my life.”

Credence wanted to argue with him, because surely Percival deserved better. But the hot, thick press of Percival inside of him was overwhelming, especially when Percival changed the angle so his cock rubbed over the place that made Credence feel raw and open beneath him. Credence clutched at Percival’s back, leaving finger-shaped bruises against Percival’s skin as he came.

Percival followed suit a dozen thrusts later, dragging them out like he was trying to savor every second while Credence shivered in overstimulated bliss beneath him.

“I’m an idiot,” Percival said. “I keep telling myself that Grindelwald doesn’t get to take things, when I should be telling myself that none of it matters as long as I have you to give them back.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Credence told him. “You’re _mine.”_ He wanted to ask about Percival’s day – about what it had been like to see Mr. Grindelwald again, but he thought, maybe, that could wait until after a nap and some supper.

“You’re mine,” he said again. “And I’m never letting you go.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly fluff, and I do not think it requires warnings. Bonus points to anyone who catches the (completely obvious) stealth crossover. ;)

Graves pressed a kiss to the curve of Credence’s shoulder and dragged the covers over him. Credence made a sleepy noise of gratitude and buried his face a bit more firmly in his pillow. Graves looked down at him. His heart felt swollen and sore, so full of love he ached with it.

Graves wanted to climb back into bed and curl up around him, to make a shelter of his arms where he could keep Credence safe while he napped.

There was something else he needed to do first.

Graves donned a pair of loose sleeping pants and grabbed his wand, padding out into the back garden. The February evening was crisp and cool; Graves took a deep breath and let it clear the last faint traces of desire from his lungs until love was the only thing that was left.

He used his wand to trace out a series of wards that glowed silver-blue in the faint half-light. Containment, protection, reflection, grounding, along with the ward that had been passed through the Graves family from old Gondulphus himself. That ward had no name, but it hid the presence of magic so that anyone looking for it would think they found No-Maj’s where they expected to find wizards. Then he added a second layer, using the variants meant to weave into the first set of wards. Theseus and the lads used to tease him for how many layers of wards he set during the war. Two was generally considered overkill and three was a sign of unreasonable paranoia, but they’d stopped laughing the first time the wards had kept a hit squad from killing them in their sleep.

Graves studied all three layers. Together, they were strong enough to contain enough magic to shake the foundations of the Woolworth Building. He hoped they were enough to keep what he was going to do from disturbing Credence’s sleep, sensitive to magic as he was.

He cast a charm for amplification. It wasn’t as good as _felix felicis_ as far as ensuring success in his endeavors went, but it was adequate for his needs.

Graves knelt in the warded circle, pressed his wand to his heart, and spoke the words for the shield charm. _“Armor amore.”_

There were no physical components to a shield charm. There were no ingredients. It was just magic and will and love poured into something solid and real.

It hurt. Graves expected that, though, and it was nothing to the Cruciatus, so he ignored it.

He thought about Credence, who was both gift and giver. Everything Grindelwald tainted, Credence made clean. He was a walking, breathing Patronus; the one good thing Graves could cling to. He made Graves’ life better just by _existing,_ and Graves would sacrifice everything – his magic, his name, his life – if that was what it took to keep Credence safe.

He poured his magic into the spell, but it wasn’t enough. He could _feel_ that it wasn’t enough, that producing a tangible shield charm was just beyond his reach.

No, damn it, he thought. _No._ If Albus Dumbledore could do this for _Grindelwald,_ then Graves could do this for Credence. He gave up on trying to direct his magic into the spell and just let it go, letting the spell take it. It ripped free with a howl just beyond the edge of sound and Graves saw the spell take shape. Whatever it was glowed a deep, unearthly blue, and it drank in his magic.

 _“Finite incantatem!”_ Graves snarled, yanking his magic back under control. It was easier than it had been, breaking out of Grindelwald’s prison. Still like wrestling with a wampus cat, but less like he’d lost all twelve rounds with one.

Graves flopped backwards into the dirt, exhausted and pleased. He was, he noticed, sitting in a small crater that he definitely needed to backfill before Credence caught sight of it, but his wards were intact.

Mostly. The first layer had been completely burned through, the second badly damaged and the third was untouched. No one had felt the explosion of magic.

No one else knew what he’d done. No one else ever would. To the rest of the world, Credence’s shield charm would just be whatever physical form it had taken, and its secrecy would keep him safe.

Graves wondered what form his magic had taken. The shield charm Dumbledore had made for Grindelwald was a flat silver disc with a phoenix on it. The phoenix had been made out of delicate rose gold filigree, and it had little ruby chips for eyes and dots of plain gold trailing from its wings, like sparks. Grindelwald had worn it around his neck on a leather cord that seemed too ordinary to hold something so powerful.

He sat up again with a groan, groping for where the shield charm had fallen.

It was a silver ring. The flat face of it was shaped like an old fashioned shield: flat on the top, with the sides curving to a point at the bottom. MACUSA’s eagle was depicted on the surface, made out of dozens of tiny sapphires.

Graves closed his fingers around it and started to laugh, because it was _exactly_ the sort of gift he might have picked out, if left to his own devices. A shield and a reminder that he was MACUSA’s – and that he would bring the full might of MACUSA down on anyone who meant Credence harm. It was an unsubtle, possessive sort of gift.

It was perfect.

He staggered back to the house on wobbly legs. His bad leg throbbed, reminding him that throwing that much magic around while he was still physically weak was a _terrible fucking idea._ Graves couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Graves stripped his sleep pants off and wandered into the smaller bathroom for a shower, leaving his wand and the shield charm within easy reach, just in case. He scrubbed clean with the same quick efficiency he’d learned in the war, falling back into old habits. Hot running water was infinitely preferable to cold water conjured via _aguamenti._

Credence was still napping when Graves climbed back into bed, exhaustion nipping at his bones. Graves curled up around him like he’d wanted to earlier, grasping Credence’s right hand in his own.

Credence had beautiful hands. Long, artist’s fingers and delicate bones. Graves could not understand how anyone could bring themselves to hurt something so beautiful. Death by Obscurial was entirely too merciful a fate for Mary Lou Barebone.

Graves slid the ring onto Credence’s right ring finger.

Credence stirred into wakefulness. “Percival?” he asked.

“Made you something,” Graves said.

Credence’s breath caught in his chest as he looked at the shield charm. “It’s beautiful.” Then, because he was Credence and too fucking smart for Graves’ own good, he said, “Is this a shield charm?” in tones that suggested that yelling and/or more arguing might be in Graves’ immediate future.

“We need to get you a wand,” Graves said. “Then you’ll be able to defend yourself properly. At least now you’ll be safe in public, though.”

“Of course it is,” Credence moaned, covering his face with his ringed hand.

Graves rather liked the look of that; his ring on Credence’s finger, a sleek contrast to Credence’s skin. He would have preferred slightly sexier moaning, though.

If Graves had known that forty-eight hours worth of friendship with Dorothy Collins was enough time for her to pass on the _why is my Auror a fucking **idiot**_ moan, he would not have been so quick to introduce them.

It occurred to Graves that he was no longer making sense inside his own head. He checked his mental walls on reflex, just in case. People were easier to read when they were exhausted, too, but his fortress stood just as tall and firm as ever.

“Naptime,” Graves decided. His brain would work better after a nap.

“Bedtime,” Credence corrected. _“After_ dinner. Are you okay? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“No,” Graves said. “M’fine, just tired. It’s been a long day. I’m not hurt.”

Credence sighed. “I’ll bring you some soup. It’s not as good as Robert’s, but it’s edible.”

“As long as it’s better than Dindrane’s, I’ll be happy,” Graves muttered.

Credence huffed and went to go fetch some soup. He came back with a bowl of chicken soup with vegetables. “Percival? What happened to the back garden?”

Graves had completely forgotten to backfill the crater he’d left behind. “Oh, shit.”

 

*

 

Credence pressed his thumb against the flat face of his ring – his shield charm – and rotated it slowly around his finger. He’d never worn jewelry before. He had a vague notion that men who wore jewelry outside of wedding rings were somehow sinful, either because they were invert freaks like him, or because they openly displayed the sin of gluttony. Ma had never flat out _said_ that it was sinful, but Credence knew with bone deep certainty, that Ma Wouldn’t Approve.

Ma wouldn’t approve of a lot of things about Credence’s life these days, chief among them the fact that he was still around to live it. But men with men wasn’t wrong in the wizarding world the way it was in the No-Maj one, so while he was still definitely an invert, he wasn’t a sinful freak. He had _magic,_ and no one was ever going to call him sinful ever again.

Credence rubbed his thumb across the eagle, relishing in the heavy weight of the ring.

It was the prettiest, most expensive thing he had ever owned. _Far too good for the likes of a sinful wretch like you,_ Ma’s voice told him from memory. The fact that Percival had created both the silver and the sapphires from nothing did not lessen their value. If he were inclined to sell it, Credence had no doubt that he would be set for the rest of his quiet No-Maj life.

Credence was not inclined to sell it. And its value in the wizarding world far eclipsed its value in the No-Maj one. In the No-Maj world, it was only so much precious metal and stone. In the wizarding world, it was a hole ripped in the fabric of magic itself: desperation and love made flesh.

_We need to get you a wand. Then you’ll be able to defend yourself properly. At least now you’ll be safe in public, though._

Credence was fairly certain that Percival would find some other reason to argue that he was not safe even with the shield charm and a wand, but he _could_ walk outside safely now, and he had every intention of doing so.

Percival had made light of his accomplishments, but Credence knew that making the shield charm had taken a lot out of him. Percival had fallen asleep when Credence went to take the empty soup bowl back to the kitchen. He’d slept like the dead clear through until morning.

“I’ll ask Goldstein to show you around our part of New York, if you like,” Percival offered. “She hasn’t been reinstated as an Auror yet – I need to file the paperwork for that today – but it’s what she is, so you’ll be safe with her.”

Credence suspected that anyone who spent more than ten minutes with Tina knew that she was an Auror. She didn’t feel the need to mention it, but it was obvious that she was like Percival. She defined herself by what she was: an Auror. Someone who protected people and kept them safe from harm.

“I’d like that,” he said.

“I should be able to send her here around lunchtime,” Percival told him. He set a small bag on the table next to Credence. “That’s linked directly to my personal account. Buy whatever you’d like.”

Credence opened the bag. It was bigger on the inside, full of shining gold coins of varying sizes. He frowned at it. It definitely wasn’t heavy enough or round enough for the sheer mass of coins inside it.

“Money taken from the bag comes directly out of my bank,” Percival explained. “The No-Maj’s have something similar, don’t they?”

“They have checks,” Credence said. “I guess those are similar. I think there are a few more steps involved, though.” He had a broad idea of how checks worked, but no one in the neighborhood he’d grown up in had enough money to warrant writing a check.

“Excellent,” said Percival. He cupped Credence’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I’ll see you later,” he said, resting one hand over Credence’s belly and caressing it with his magic. “I’ll see you both later,” he amended, and vanished in a swirl of magic.

Credence felt an answering flutter of wings as the baby responded to Percival’s magic.

“Did you like that?” Credence asked the baby. “That’s your father’s magic. He’s very powerful.”

A sudden, terrible thought hit him. If the baby was aware of Percival’s magic, was he also aware of the rest of Percival? Did making love with Percival disturb the baby?

“Oh, God,” Credence said, around the rising tide of mortification.

He bolted for the living room, which was where he’d left _Expecting the Unexpected: A Guide for the Pregnant Wizard._ The author – a Healer who specialized in androgenesis by the name of Septimus Lapin – had carried and birthed three children of his own, which Credence figured made him an expert in his field in practical terms as well as professional ones.

Credence was not very far into _Expecting the Unexpected._ He’d been more concerned with potential symptoms and things that might be bad for the baby and had not gone much past _What to Expect in the Second Trimester: You’re Glowing, Now What._ He probably ought to have, because the chapter after that was titled _Sex in the Second Trimester: Revenge of the Libido._

According to Septimus Lapin, a resurgence of one’s desire for sex was a perfectly natural result of no longer feeling nauseous and tired all the time. It did not happen to everyone, and that was perfectly normal too, but if you _did_ want to have sex with your partner, the second trimester was an ideal time to enjoy it before your belly got too big for certain positions. It did not impact the baby’s development at all, and the baby would not notice or remember it. Lapin recommended using this time to bond with your partner, before the baby arrived.

Lapin did point out that there were certain positions that should be avoided past a certain point, and helpfully recommended a few alternatives. There were illustrations. They were wizarding illustrations, so they moved.

Credence shut the book, his face burning. He had not expected _pornography_ in a _medical handbook._

He opened the book again. Percival had never tried taking him from behind, with Credence on his hands and knees. Credence was grateful for that; that was how animals mated. People didn’t make love like that.

Except, if the little sketch was any indicator, people did.

Credence wondered what it would feel like. He liked being able to cling to Percival’s broad back while they made love, but there was something strangely appealing about the thought of being entirely surrounded by Percival; sheltered and contained. He wouldn’t be able to touch Percival as much as he was used to from that position, though. Would that be frustrating? Or would it just make him more aware of where he _could_ feel Percival?

Credence shoved the book between the couch cushions and went to go splash water on his face. He’d gotten an answer to his question, which was the important part. Any other idle speculation on his part could wait until Percival got home.

He ignored the low throb of want that thought conjured up. Now was not the time to be entertaining inappropriate thoughts about Percival. Not when he still ached sweetly from last night’s lovemaking; the phantom shape of Percival still imprinted on his insides. It was a little like having Percival with him, even after Percival had gone to work.

Credence had work of his own to do, though.

The safe house had several bedrooms on both floors. Credence had selected the one with the biggest bed for himself and Percival. There was a smaller room he thought might make a nice nursery not far down the hall from it. It had a small bed in it, about the same size as the one he’d slept on at the church. It also had a nightstand and a lamp and a chest of drawers. The chest of drawers contained the blanket Dorothy had made as well as the tiny clothes, but everything else needed to be moved. Babies needed things, didn’t they? He wasn’t sure what those things might be, aside from more clothes and nappies and things like that. Maybe Tina knew. He’d ask her, when she stopped by the house later.

Tina did not know. She planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Credence,” she said slowly. “Are you asking me about babies because I’m a woman?”

“Um,” Credence said, aware that he’d misstepped but not sure how. “Yes? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, it’s just, you’re the right gender for babies so I thought you’d … Um. Know better. Than I do.”

“Modern women are more focused on careers than babies,” Tina informed him. “And anyways, the ability to _have_ babies does not confer some inborn mystical knowledge about their needs.”

Credence blinked. “Oh,” he said. She had a point. His own ability to carry a child had _definitely_ not come with some inborn mystical knowledge about their needs.

“Tina,” Newt said softly. “Are you _afraid_ of babies?”

Tina opened her mouth. Then she shut it. “I’m not _afraid,”_ she said. “They’re just very little! And breakable! And what if I drop one?”

Newt stared at her. So did Jacob, who was very sensibly staying out of the conversation and avoiding Tina’s wrath.

“What?” Tina asked, starting to look defensive.

Newt contrived to look innocent. It was not, Credence noticed, a particularly convincing look.

“Like _you_ know so much about babies,” Tina muttered.

“I’ve raised several of my creatures from infancy,” Newt explained. “It’s not so different with humans, really. Babies are a lot sturdier than you think.”

“He’s right,” Jacob put in. “Babies are easy. It’s when they get big enough to get mouthy you run into trouble.”

“Fine,” Tina huffed. “You two can be the baby experts. I’m just here to show all three of you around wizarding New York.”

“You _sure_ this is okay?” Jacob asked. “I can stay in Newt’s case.”

Credence reached out and gripped his hand. “You need to know how to move in this world, if you’re going to be part of it. We can learn together.”

Jacob looked startled, then pleased. He squeezed Credence’s hand. “Sure, kid,” he said genially, and looked over at Tina. “Where do we start?”

 

*

 

Tina used magic to transport Credence to an alley just behind the Herald Square Macy’s. Credence managed not to be sick all over her shoes, although his own would have been a loss if not for a quick _scourgify._ Thank God for cleaning charms.

“That is my least favorite kind of magic,” Credence said, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief.

Newt and Jacob swirled into existence next to them a second later.

“Mint?” Newt asked, patting his pockets down. The green twig-like creature Newt called Pickett crawled out of Newt’s breast pocket and gave him a disapproving look. “Oh, sorry Pickett,” Newt said. He finally fished a mint out of one of the inside pockets of his coat.

Credence took it gratefully, letting the mint overpower the taste of bile.

Jacob looked around. “Your part of New York don’t look much different from ours,” he observed.

Tina’s mouth curled up at the edges. “You’re not in our part of New York yet,” she said. She strode to the back of the alley and briskly tapped her wand on one of the posters stuck to the bricks.

The bricks melted away, revealing a wide open street and a shopping center that put Macy’s to shame.

“Oh,” Jacob said, mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Wow,” said Credence. His eyes had to be the size of saucers, but he couldn’t make himself stop staring. “Um,” he said, a second later. “Won’t we stand out? I’m not sure I can stop staring.”

Tina smiled at him. “This is New York,” she reminded him. “Tourists always stare.”

Newt made a faintly exasperated noise. “It’s nice, I suppose.”

“You _suppose,”_ Tina repeated.

Newt shrugged. “Well, it’s not London, is it?”

Tina made an outraged squawking sound that made Pickett crawl back into Newt’s breast pocket.

Credence laughed at both of them, because they were both cities _full of magic._ There was a whole _world_ of magic that existed alongside the ordinary one. How could one possibly be better than the other? It was _magic._

There was a small creature in what looked like a shabby white pillowcase operating what Credence assumed was a shoe-shining station, except the wizard who paused in front of it passed over his wand instead.

“House elf,” Jacob said knowledgeably.

Credence blinked. How did Jacob know what the creature was? Newt didn’t have one in his case.

“The Blind Pig has a house elf that tends the bar,” Tina explained.

Credence stared at her, trying not to look quite so appalled as he felt. Alcohol was illegal as well as immoral; what was an upstanding woman like Tina doing in a place that sold alcohol?

Tina made a face. “It’s a long story.”

“Come on,” Tina said. “Let’s go to Ariadne’s. It’s Queenie’s favorite shop,” she told Jacob.

Credence frowned. Something about that name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t think of where he’d heard it before. He let Tina tug him along, staring at absolutely everything. They passed what might have been an apothecary, except the bottles in the shop shone in the same jewel tones as the ones from the potions Mr. Grindelwald had given him. Credence was briefly tempted to stop in to see if they had more of the potion that tasted like liquid starlight, but the thought of doing so in front of Tina and Newt and Jacob made him flush with embarrassment. After that was some sort of herbalist's shop, although the ingredients in barrels on the front stoop were like nothing he’d ever seen. There were witches and wizards everywhere. Some of them were even doing magic. Credence sighed, a little envious at how easy they made it all look.

The sign for Ariadne’s shop was elegant gold script on a black background. A little golden spider had been painted after the name, like punctuation. The little spider was spinning a delicate web that sprawled over the lower half of the sign and looked, Credence realized, like a woman’s dress.

“The fashion pages say Madam President shops here,” Tina confided as they walked through the door.

The inside of the shop was a riot of color. Fabric flew overhead and landed on mannequins, taking on the shape of a woman’s dress or a man’s shirt as the clothing assembled itself. Credence watched a bolt of crisp white fabric become a man’s dress shirt, stitched together with flashing silver needles guided by invisible hands. The mannequin twisted this way and that, modeling the shirt, while another set of needles stitched mother-of-pearl buttons down the front.

Finished clothing hung on racks all throughout the shop. Rows upon rows of gorgeous shirts and pants and ties, blouses and dresses and skirts, not to mention undergarments for both sexes.

“Oh my,” Credence said, going bright red when he caught sight of a woman’s slip. It was about the same color as his face, and made out of what Credence thought might be real silk.

Jacob stared at it wistfully. “Queenie would like that.”

Tina snorted. “Red’s really not her color.”

“Every color is Queenie’s color,” said Jacob.

Credence wanted to ask if Jacob and Queenie were courting. He knew that they were sweet on one another – he had _eyes_ – but courting worked differently from being sweethearts. Or at least he thought it did. It wasn’t like he had any practical experience with it one way or another.

Buying your sweetheart’s undergarments seemed a bit forward, though.

“Do they sell baby clothes here?” Credence asked, turning away from the undergarments.

“Er. Not exactly,” said Tina. “I’m sure Thea can make you some, though. She’s Ariadne’s apprentice,” she explained. “Ariadne’s mostly does custom work, although they stock a lot of ready made things, too.” She looked him over. “You’re not showing very much. We should probably get you some paternity clothes tailored to hide your condition.”

Credence frowned at her. “I thought there was nothing wrong with men with men,” he said. “Or…” He made a vague gesture at his belly, not wanting to draw attention to it now, in case it wasn’t safe.

“There isn’t,” Tina hastened to assure him. “But the longer it takes people to notice, the better off we’ll be. It’ll cut down on the number of lurid headlines the _Ghost_ runs. Unless you want your entry into wizarding society to be in the scandal sheets.”

Credence grimaced. He was really starting to hate the _New York Ghost._ “Right,” he said.

Tina squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Let me grab Thea.”

Credence wore one of his new, well-fitting suits out of the shop. He had not paid much attention to the mirrors in the safe house – he knew what he looked like – but the shopgirl made him stand in front of a full length mirror while Tina and Newt and Jacob made encouraging comments in the background.

He was surprised by how different he looked. His hair had grown out of the awful cut Ma forced on him whenever it started looking unkempt; it wasn’t fashionable for men to wear their hair long either, but it _curled,_ ever so slightly into gentle waves. Credence liked the way it looked. He wondered if his son’s hair would curl, or if it would be straight and dark like Percival’s.

Regular meals that weren’t thin gruel and watered down soup had filled in the gaunt lines of his face. The cut of his new suit hid the gentle swell of his belly and made him look solid, instead. Not stocky or muscular, but _solid:_ like something real.

Credence would never, ever admit it, but sometimes he thought that having magic also made people almost supernaturally attractive. Credence Barebone had believed Ma’s lectures on the evils of magic: that it could be used to deceive and seduce, to tempt moral men down immoral paths. Credence Graves thought that maybe it was that spark of magic – that otherness – shining through, drawing the eye whether they wanted to be seen or not.

God and all of the Auror division knew that Percival was handsome, so much so that being smitten with him was accepted as a matter of course. Seraphina and Dindrane and the Bluebird were all beautiful too, in a terrifyingly competent sort of way. Tina’s beauty was fierce and warm in a way that reminded Credence of Percival’s magic, while Queenie was bright and sparkling. Newt was harder to categorize, somewhere between handsome and _pretty,_ but there was no denying that the sure strength of his arms and the brightness of his eyes were enough to distract anyone. Jacob was handsome too, for all that he had no magic of his own. It was almost as if all the magic around him had spilled over and filled him up with it too.

Credence thought, because he had come so late into his own magic, that it and his looks would remain the stunted, starved thing that he was. He realized now that he’d been wrong about that. This new, magical version of himself could turn heads too. He didn’t look like Credence Barebone anymore. He looked like Credence Graves.

 _Vanity is a sin,_ Ma’s voice said from memory. _You stupid, sinful boy._

 _Shut up,_ Credence thought back at her, the way he’d never been able to while Ma was alive. _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Jacob’s hand on his elbow drew him out of his thoughts. “You alright, kid?” he asked. “You look kinda like you want to punch somebody.”

“Just the past,” Credence said. He looked at Tina. “Are there stores that sell things for babies?”

“Er,” said Tina.

Credence was honestly started to think that Tina ran in the opposite direction anytime someone even _mentioned_ babies. He really hoped she learned to tolerate them by the time his son was born. He did not think they could get Rappaport’s Law abolished before then, and he and Tina still had a lot of work to do.

“There should be a Wheeler’s Wee Ones around here somewhere,” Newt said, looking around. “Oh! There it is, with the purple door.”

“I thought you’d never been to New York before,” Tina said, a bit suspiciously.

“Oh, I haven’t,” Newt told her, cheerful. “But Wheeler’s are everywhere. I ran across one in Nepal.” He shepherded them past the purple door and into Wheeler’s Wee Ones, where more tiny clothes and toys than Credence thought existed hung absolutely everywhere. There was another wizard in the shop, more visibly pregnant than Credence was, arguing with a staggeringly beautiful dark haired witch about how he was absolutely not going to Paradise Island to give birth. “I want Healers and potions and a hospital, Diana,” he said. “Also, I’m pretty sure your mother still hates me, which is not exactly going to help me relax.”

The woman – his wife? – sighed, and pressed a kiss to his temples. “My mother does not hate you,” she said. Her accent was like the shopgirl from Ariadne’s, careful emphasis placed on the vowels.

Credence had not realized that the spells that let men carry children worked with women, too. How did that even _work,_ he wondered. More magic, he supposed.

Credence realized that he was staring and looked away. “I don’t even know where to start,” he confessed.

“A crib, maybe?” Tina suggested.

Newt shook his head. “If Percival’s family is anything like mine, they’ll have a crib every member of the family has slept in tucked away somewhere. We should get clothes and nappies and bottles.”

Newt, Credence discovered, really was some kind of baby expert. He had opinions on just about everything – “not those bottles, the nipples don’t seal right and milk gets _everywhere”_ – and was surprisingly sneaky about adding tiny baby outfits to the ever expanding pile of things to purchase. Most of the outfits Newt stealth-added had a magical creature of some sort on them. Newt picked out a shirt with a hippogriff embroidered on it in five different sizes.

“I’m buying these,” Newt said, a little defensively. “As a gift.”

“Uh huh,” said Tina. She did not lower her vaguely judgmental eyebrow at all, but since she had a set of tiny overalls with a thunderbird on them and a plush thunderbird toy in her hands, she had no room to talk.

Jacob finished perusing the brightly colored children’s books and added a dozen of them to Credence’s pile. “Wish I’d had books like this when I was a kid,” he said.

“We should probably stop,” Credence said, looking at the small mountain of baby things they’d managed to acquire in alarm. Surely one child could not need so many things.

“You kiddin’?” Jacob asked, when he said as much. “Pal, this is like the tip of the baby iceberg. If we were in the neighborhood where I grew up, the aunties would make sure to pass along anything they thought would fit, on the understanding that you’d pass it along once you was through with it. You’re startin’ from scratch, so you might as well stock up for the next kid.” He paused. “If that’s, y’know, something you wanna do.”

Yes, thought Credence. That was _exactly_ what he wanted to do. He wanted as many children as Percival would give him: a true legacy for Percival’s strength and his kindness.

“Good point,” Credence said bravely. His courage vanished when the shopgirl told him what the total was. He wasn’t entirely certain how currency worked in the wizarding world, but one hundred and nineteen dragots _sounded_ like a staggeringly expensive amount. It probably was one, if Tina’s wince was anything to go by.

“We can do a layaway, if you’d like,” the shopgirl said kindly.

Percival wouldn’t begrudge him the money. Credence suspected that Percival wouldn’t notice the money at all. But he was, for once, not thinking of Percival.

He thought about Chastity and Modesty instead. He thought about how the girls owned three plain grey dresses apiece, while he had owned two shirts and pairs of trousers and a nearly threadbare suit jacket. Even Ma had only owned four outfits, the shabbiest of which was earmarked for Chastity to grow into.

He thought about how he used to wish that he could provide for them, the way a real man did. He thought about how badly he’d wanted to buy all three of them pretty new dresses, because he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, it would make Ma smile to have something pretty to wear.

And then he thought about how often all four of them had had to go without. Sometimes it was because Ma thought they were sinful and needed to be punished, and sometimes it was because their meager funds did not stretch far enough for secondhand clothing that fit or enough food to fill their bellies.

He could not do that to his son. To _Percival’s_ son. He could not do such a thing to the child he carried or the ones he hoped to. He could not deprive them of anything, all for fear of spending money.

“No, thank you,” he told the shopgirl firmly. “I’ll take these home today.” He reached into the pouch Percival had given him, carefully counting out the correct coins.

If Percival had a problem with how much of his money Credence had just spent, then Credence would be more mindful in the future. But Credence could not – _would not_ – regret anything he spent on their son.

“Let’s go home,” Credence said, after Newt and Tina had also paid. The safe house was not technically anyone else’s home but his and Percival’s, but it felt right to invite Tina and Newt and Jacob back there. They were all part of the family he wanted to build, so it was only right that it was their home as well as his.

“Sounds good to me,” Jacob said cheerfully. “How about I show you how to make proper roast beef and potatoes?”

“That sounds lovely,” Credence said. He was echoed with longing sighs from Tina and Newt, because Jacob’s cooking really was that good. “Let’s go home,” he repeated, and meant it.

 

*

 

Seraphina’s secretary was waiting just outside of Graves’ office.

Graves sighed. “Hello, Ramirez.”

“Director Graves,” Ramirez said evenly.

Marco Ramirez had been in the year above Graves and Seraphina at Ilvermorny. He was the grouchiest, least nurturing Pukwudgie Graves had ever met. Most Pukwudgies were like Queenie Goldstein and Dorothy Collins: sweet and kind and full of heart. They were cast in the same mold as James Steward, who from all accounts had been a good man with a kind heart.

Ramirez had more in common with William the Pukwudgie than he did with James Steward. He was pricklier than a porcupine, tolerated only a small number of people and liked even fewer of them. Rumor had it that William the Pukwudgie himself had taught Ramirez how to shoot a bow and arrow – the traditional weapons of his people. Ramirez had declined to ever confirm that rumor one way or another, but there was no denying that he was terrifying with the antiquated weapons. He was the reason Auror Bingo had a square for “encounter unlikely/outdated weaponry.”

As far as Graves knew, Seraphina was the only person Ramirez actually seemed to _like._ He was Seraphina’s the same way Graves was, and they tolerated each other for her sake.

“Am I summoned?” Graves asked, shucking off his greatcoat and hanging it in his office.

Ramirez pursed his lips in silent reproof. Of course Seraphina had summoned him. Ramirez would not be lying in wait outside of Graves’ office, otherwise.

“Right,” said Graves, rolling his eyes. “Stupid question.”

Ramirez tilted his head in agreement.

“How many appointments is she behind?” Graves asked.

Ramirez was not actually Seraphina’s secretary, although that was the only title they had that came close to describing what he did. He was equal parts fixer and general dogsbody; a living extension of Seraphina’s will. Her left hand, to Graves’ right.

Calling him that gave payroll fits, though, so they went with secretary instead. Personally, Graves thought they should have used ‘pet hitwizard,’ but that _definitely_ would driven payroll over the edge.

He did have a very good understanding of her calendar, though.

Ramirez bared his teeth. “None.”

“None,” Graves repeated.

“Some of us are good at what we do, Graves. Try not to waste too much of her time.” Ramirez took up his post just outside of the Pentagram Office.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Graves said, shutting the door behind him.

“Director Graves,” said Seraphina. She was sitting on the small sofa rather than behind her desk. A coffee pot sat on the small table in front of her. This was an informal, off-the-books conversation, then. “Would you care for some chicory?”

Shit, thought Graves. Comfort food.

You could take the girl out of the South, but you couldn’t take the South out of the girl. Seraphina always defaulted to her childhood favorites when she was _really_ upset. If she broke out her Auntie Violetta’s beignets, he was fucked.

“Please,” Graves said, taking a seat. He checked the table. Some kind of strudel. Oh, good.

Seraphina poured him a cup, every inch the gracious Southern hostess Genevieve Picquery had raised her to be.

Graves sighed, suddenly exhausted. It was barely past nine in the morning.

“Who was it?” he asked. One of his team had gone to her last night. Summersea had a better professional relationship with Seraphina, but Hughes had a better personal one. It could have been either one of them.

Seraphina sipped her chicory. “You know I’m not going to tell you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t ask.” Graves studied Seraphina’s face, familiar and dear. She wasn’t sleeping. Not even Madam Butterfly’s Brighten Up could hide the bruised circles beneath her eyes now. He wondered if she’d slept at all since he’d been found. It didn’t look like she had.

She’d been fighting by herself for too long. First to keep Grindelwald in MACUSA’s custody, and then for him. It was time he shouldered some of her burdens.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. “Talk to me. You don’t need to carry this alone.”

Seraphina stared at him, incredulous. Her face crumpled into an odd expression, and Graves realized that she was trying and mostly failing not to cry.

“Shit,” said Graves. He set his chicory down on the table and liberated Seraphina’s before she could spill it all over her dress. He pulled her into a hug, offering up a literal shoulder for her to cry on, if it was what she needed.

Seraphina wept silently, in the awful, quiet gasping way all women seemed to know how to do. She buried her face against his shoulder and said nothing.

Graves had learned over the years that it was better to let Seraphina finish crying before trying to figure out why she was. Pushing her before she wanted to talk about it only resulted in more tears and getting punched.

“You break my fucking heart sometimes,” Seraphina told him. She took the handkerchief he offered her and dabbed at her eyes. Seraphina never seemed to go red and splotchy when she was crying; she looked like a storybook princess instead.

Storybook queen, Graves amended.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said.

“I know,” she sighed, sounding as tired as he felt. “Fuck, Percival, _I know._ It’s just – you’ve sacrificed so much. For me. For MACUSA. For our people. You carry the weight of our world on your shoulders, and you’ve never once complained.”

“I have nothing to complain about,” Grave said honestly. He was a Graves. He knew his duty.

“I know,” Seraphina said. “That’s why you break my heart sometimes.”

Graves blinked at her.

“You don’t have to carry every weight someone hands you,” Seraphina told him. “Especially not if the person telling you to carry it is someone like Gellert Grindelwald. It’s okay to set some burdens down.”

Ah. He was wondering when they’d circle back to what he’d said to Grindelwald.

“A man takes responsibility for his actions,” Graves reminded her. She had been raised to that tenet just as much as he had. “I’m not – I still haven’t come to terms with what he made me do. Not to Credence, or to you, or to John or Win or Alex. Not because I think I am responsible for those actions, but because there were lines that I thought I would never cross, and did.” That wasn’t entirely true. Graves did feel responsible for his actions. He’d been the one to manipulate Grindelwald; he bore some culpability, even if no one else wanted to admit it. But he tried not to lie to Seraphina, so it wasn’t a lie, either. “But if you’re worried about the weight I carry, you should know that Credence makes them easier to bear.”

Just the sight of Credence standing in the hallway had lifted a weight off his shoulders. Their relationship might have started somewhat unconventionally, but he was Graves’ lover – _his fiancé_ – and Graves did not doubt for a second that he had Credence’s heart.

He’d thought, in light of yesterday’s revelations, that the last thing he’d want to do when he got home was touch Credence; he’d been afraid that his guilt would stain Credence somehow. And then he’d actually _seen_ Credence, and suddenly the most important thing in the world – the _only_ thing in the world that mattered – was to make sure that Credence knew how much Graves loved him. Graves had feasted on him, drinking in Credence’s pleasure as though he were some sort of incubus.

Grindelwald didn’t get to take this from him too. He didn’t get to take Credence.

“You love him,” Seraphina observed.

Graves slanted a look at her. “Well, yes,” he said.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, I’m just surprised. You’ve spent the last twenty years married to your job and the ten before it studying to be ‘the greatest Auror who ever lived.’”

“Are you ever going to let me live that down?” Graves asked.

“No.”

“I was _fourteen,”_ Graves said, exasperated.

“My answer is still no,” said Seraphina.

“You’re the _worst,”_ he grumbled.

“You love me,” she asserted, a faint smile hovering around her mouth. “I didn’t think you were the marrying type.”

“Me neither,” Graves admitted.

“Love looks good on you, Percival,” said Seraphina. She kissed his forehead, a silent benediction. “Now go. I believe you have a department to run.”

“Says the woman running our country,” Graves retorted. He paused at the door. Seraphina did not look like she’d been crying, but there was something about the exhausted line of her shoulders that made him want to punch people in the face so that they’d leave her alone and let her get some rest. “Come home with me tonight,” he said, before he could think better of it.

“Do you think about how these things sound before they leave your mouth?” Seraphina wondered. “No, wait, stupid question. Of course you don’t.”

Graves huffed. “For dinner,” he said. “Good lord, you sound like the nurses at St. Brigid’s. I do not have designs on your virtue, Seraphina.”

“Perish the thought,” she said. “Honestly, up until fifth year, we all figured you’d been named for the wrong Grail Knight.”

It took Graves a second to work that out in his head. “I’d have made a terrible Galahad. That pure of heart thing only happens in storybooks.”

Well, mostly. It occurred to him that Credence would have made an excellent Galahad. Credence had the purest heart Graves had ever encountered.

Seraphina made a face. “Trust me, _everyone_ knew that after fifth year.”

Graves was not sure what part of that sentence he objected to the most: the part where Seraphina made him sound like a teenage Don Juan, or the part where she implied that all of Ilvermorny was aware of and invested in his sex life. Both seemed like reasonable things to object to, so he did.

Seraphina stared at him.

“What?” Graves asked, when she kept staring at him.

“Percival. There were _three separate betting pools_ on why you never went out with anyone. Pukwudgie’s theory was that you were emotionally stunted and just didn’t notice that people were attracted to you –”

“I am not emotionally stunted!”

“Horned Serpent’s theory was that you’d decided to become some sort of warrior ascetic and were channeling your hormones into martial and magical prowess,” Seraphina continued, ruthless.

Graves made a faint noise of protest. He sounded like a dying teakettle, and it was still more dignified than begging her to stop talking, which is what he wanted to do.

“And Thunderbird thought that you were biding your time, and that you’d probably demonstrate that you’d been wrongly sorted once you figured out what you wanted.”

“What,” Graves said flatly.

“They thought you’d be adventurous,” Seraphina translated.

Right, Graves thought. Fuck dignity.

“Mercy,” he begged. “By Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights, take mercy on me, please.”

Seraphina laughed at him. “You have no idea how many people thought approaching me would get them into your trousers.”

“Damnit Seraphina, what part of _mercy_ do you think _means please traumatize me with more details about our adolescence?”_ Graves demanded.

“How do you think _I_ felt?” Seraphina countered. “You were practically my brother!”

She had a point. Graves had absolutely no desire to know anything about her sex life or Dindrane’s, and he _definitely_ wouldn’t have appreciated being asked how to get into her trousers at any point in his life.

“Thank you for that, Seraphina. Suddenly the prospect of dealing with a genocidal madman seems less terrifying than continuing this conversation.”

Seraphina’s laughter followed him out the door.

Ramirez gave him a slightly alarmed look.

“I can be funny,” Graves told him, a bit defensively.

“You’ve never been funny,” Ramirez countered.

That was, unfortunately, true. Graves flipped Ramirez off and went back to his office.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 90% fluff, although the 10% that is not fluff should include warnings for Grindelwald. The inside of his head is not a pretty place.

The Legilimens interrogators did not have their own department, since they technically fell under Magical Security’s purview, but they had their own organizational structure, and Graves made a point of getting to know each unofficial department head as a matter of professional courtesy. They didn’t tend to last long; the Legilimens interrogators had the highest burnout rate in MACUSA.

Kristoff Fuchs had been the head of Interrogations for three years now. The longest anyone had lasted as the unofficial department head was five years; if Graves were a betting man – which he was, even though it was no longer appropriate for him to take part in the office pools he pretended to know nothing about – then he would have bet on Fuchs to beat that record. Fuchs was a legacy, just like Graves was. Being an Auror was in his blood. His family name did not garner the same respect as Graves’ did, but it was old enough to grant him entry wherever he chose to go. And if it didn’t, well, the Fuchs family and the Weiss family had intermarried often enough over the years. Fuchs could call on Helmine Weiss herself for favors, if he wanted to.

Fuchs was a grim-faced man, taller and wider than Graves. Hughes described him as being built like a brick shithouse, which Graves had to admit was broadly accurate, even if the expression didn’t actually make any sense. Fuchs reminded him of the warrior kings in his mother’s stories, the sort who wore fifty pounds of plate armor and swung broadswords taller than they were, their muscles running to fat now that the fighting was done and peace had been established.

“Director Graves,” Fuchs said.

“Senior Auror Fuchs,” said Graves.

Fuchs set a small vial with silvery liquid on Graves’ desk. “I was not sure if he would be thinking in English or in German,” he said, his diction careful and precise. Graves’ mother used to sound like that sometimes, when she’d spent too much time reading or thinking or speaking her mother tongue and had to remind herself that English had different rules. “And I did not wish to risk one of my people, if his mind had traps, as yours does.”

“Does it?” Graves asked. Every Occlumens he’d ever met built their walls a little differently. He wondered how Grindelwald had built his.

“Not as yours does, no,” said Fuchs. “His mind is … different. Dangerous. It’s best you see for yourself.” He hesitated, and then he said, “To be exposed to such a mind is … hm. Unhealthy, shall we say.”

_Too much exposure to Grindelwald’s mind will break me,_ he did not say, but it was what he meant.

Graves nodded. “I agree. Limited exposure would be for the best.” He hesitated, because he hated having his limits dictated to him. Still, the suggestion had to be made. “Perhaps a rota?”

Fuchs’ grim expression went grimmer. “No.”

Graves didn’t want his people anywhere near Grindelwald either. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Fuchs. “And may I say, it’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Graves said. “Let them know I’m not to be disturbed, please.”

Fuchs inclined his head and shut the door behind him.

Graves eyed the little vial with dislike. He’d know Grindelwald far, far better than he wanted to after this.

Graves reached for his pensieve, emptied the vial into it, and plunged in.

 

*

 

Kristoff Fuchs stands outside of Grindelwald’s cell, waiting. He is not looking forward to what he is going to do. Has to do, if he’s being honest. Kristoff usually is; lies seem pointless, when you spend your days surrounded by other Legilimens.

John Summersea and Win Hughes march Grindelwald past him, into the specially prepared cell. Summersea’s thoughts are roiling, the tide of them shifting between rage and denial. He is not the Occlumens Director Graves is, but he’s good enough to mask his thoughts with his emotions. Hughes rarely tries to hide her thoughts. She maintains that anyone listening deserves what they get, since her internal monologue is as filthy as her exterior one. Right now she is thinking: _what the fuck, what the actual fucking fuck, what the fuck_ in panicky circles that feel eerily like hyperventilation.

“He’s all yours,” Hughes says, and it is a testimony to how distressed she is that she doesn’t even try to leer at him when she says it.

“Be careful,” Summersea tells him, reaching out to grip his shoulder.

They walk away. It is just him and Grindelwald now. The other Aurors standing guard are at the end of the hallway, where their thoughts will not contaminate what he knows he must do.

Kristoff reaches for Grindelwald’s mind.

Grindelwald’s mind is like nothing he’s ever encountered before. It works quickly, holding a dozen different thought clusters at once, never lingering too long on any one thing. It is almost as if someone crossed the infamous ever-shifting Hogwarts stairs with the Great Library of MACUSA. Each thought is only tangentially related, shifting to another thought without any rhyme or reason.

_Graves stands over him. He is not triumphant, because he is not, no matter what Grindelwald thinks of him, a vulgar man. He knows how to treat a vanquished opponent. Not that Grindelwald is truly vanquished, oh no, he will escape and then Percival Graves will know what it truly means to suffer._

The thought whirls away.

_Albus,_ is the next, drenched in old pain and newly opened wounds. _I would never hurt you, Albus._ That is a truth. No. It is more than a truth. It is an absolute.

Except:

_I already hurt Albus. It’s why he’s afraid. It’s why he stays away. Was it him, or me? Does it matter? She was weak, dying. It was a mercy, what happened to the girl._

_Would Albus stay if I told him it was me? Or would he leave forever?_

Grindelwald can’t risk that. He’s willing to risk many things, but not Albus.

Never Albus.

There is doubt beneath that thought now; doubt that did not exist before today.

_We both know your never is a lie._

Grindelwald thinks about Percival, rage burning inside of him. He is indifferent to Percival Graves’ face, after so long spent wearing it. It was handsome enough to suit his purposes, but the time for such deceptions has passed. Now he wants nothing more than to destroy it.

_Rend the flesh from his skull while he still lives, leave him shattered and screaming. Will Credence still love you if you’re no longer his handsome savior, Percival? Will he still love the hollowed out husk I leave behind?_ Beneath the savagery of that thought is jealousy. Grindelwald knows the answer to his questions is _yes_ and he _hates_ that, with a blind, jealous passion. Graves has something he wants. Grindelwald wants that so much it borders on desperation, which is pathetic and petty and beneath him, but still, he _wants_ what Graves has. Not from poor, pathetic Credence, so eager for a kind word, but from –

Grindelwald shies away from the name with a lurch that makes Kristoff nauseous. He shies away too late, though, because Kristoff hears it all the same.

_Albus._

He tugs on that thought, pulling a stray thread loose.

_The androgenesis spell you used on Credence could have killed him,_ Percival says in memory. _Probably would have, according to the Healer’s at St. Brigid’s, and the child along with him_. He waits a handful of heartbeats, then twists the knife. _You hurt people, Grindelwald. It’s what men like you do. You would have hurt Dumbledore in your ignorance, and he would have suffered for it._

Grindelwald feels sick at the thought. So does Kristoff, bile rising uncontrollably in his throat.

_He would have used that spell on Albus. He intended to, in fact. It was an old spell: one he’d found in a book that boasted a ninety-percent success rate when it came to conception. Blood magic did not bother Grindelwald, nor did death. What was the life of one of the unworthy, when it was weighted against a healthy child? **His** child? _

_Grindelwald has been alone since he was a boy. He has no family to guide him, to caution him against actions that might bring harm to those he loves._

_He could have hurt Albus._

Grindelwald whips that thought away. It feels like traveling by portkey, albeit mentally. There’s an unexpected tug in his gut and a sickening lurch.

_I know what you’re doing_ , Grindelwald thinks. _Would you like me to give you something worth listening to?_ He pictures Director Graves. Director Graves is screaming. Grindelwald thinks of the first weeks of Director Graves’ imprisonment, his reluctant admiration for Director Graves’ spirit.

_Percival’s defiance was amusing_ , Grindelwald thinks at him. _For a time_.

Kristoff shudders. It is clear that Grindelwald does not find Director Graves’ defiance amusing any longer, and the thought is obviously a threat.

Grindelwald thinks lovingly of every Dark curse he’d ever used on the director. He thinks of the way Director Graves writhed and screamed under the Cruciatus, how he gasped for air when Grindelwald spelled the air out of his lungs. He thinks about putting the director under _petrificus totalus_ and carving his symbol into Percival’s skin, over and over until no inch of Percival goes unmarked.

Percival did his bidding, but he was never Grindelwald’s creature. Grindelwald will rectify that, once he is free. He will break Percival, tear him down to his base instincts, and then he will rebuild Percival into something obedient: something he can trust.

He’ll keep Credence alive. Once Percival has been remade, Grindelwald will need something to reward him with.

Perhaps he should keep Credence as a punishment. He can keep Credence alive – under carefully modified and monitored androgenesis spells – and dose Percival with desiderata periodically. Not the pitiful half-doses Percival thought he could fight off, oh no. A double dose of the stuff, until Percival could think of nothing but mindless rutting. He could turn Percival loose on Credence and watch as Percival ate his own heart out in guilt the next day, because raping the person he loved was as abhorrent to Percival as it was to Grindelwald.

_What do you think, Herr Fuchs?_ Grindelwald wonders. _Am I not merciful?_

Grindelwald locks his mind into a series of vengeful thoughts, all the hurt that made him easy to read shunted off into less accessible parts of his mind. Kristoff pulls free of Grindelwald’s mind and walks away, filling his mental ears with cotton as he passes the Aurors at the end of the hall.

He ducks into a closet and pulls out the pensieve vial with shaking fingers. Kristoff needs to get this memory out of his head before he returns to the Interrogations. He cannot risk letting this get loose among his people.

Kristoff presses his wand to his temple and the memory goes black.

 

*

 

Graves pulled away from his pensieve. His hands shook. Graves honestly couldn’t tell if it was from rage or Fuch’s leftover emotions. Part of him wanted to be sick. The rest of him wanted to march down to Grindelwald’s cell and use the Killing Curse on him.

Graves balled his hands into fists and took slow, careful breaths. He was the fucking Head of MLE for MACUSA, and he could not afford to lose control. Not now, while the greatest threat MACUSA had faced since the founding languished in their cells. He forced his rage and desperation down and made himself think dispassionately on Fuchs’ memories.

He was right about Grindelwald’s past. Grindelwald _had_ loved someone once. He’d loved Albus Dumbledore so deeply that it had left a scar around his heart, for all that Grindelwald pretended that love had never existed. Something had gone terribly wrong between them, but Grindelwald loved Dumbledore still.

Graves wondered if Dumbledore might consent to donating a few hairs for their investigation. The use of polyjuice during interrogations was considered unethical and required special dispensation from the president, but Seraphina would grant him that. People were always more open with their lovers; people they thought they could trust.

He reached into his desk and pulled out a blank notebook and a pen. He cast the Dictation charm on the pen with a flick of his wand. It would record everything he said until he cast _finite incantatem_ on it.

“Pensieve memory of Kristoff Fuchs, Senior Auror and Legilimens-Interrogator. Memory contains the interrogation of Gellert Grindelwald, dated February 22, 1927,” he said, watching the pen write his words down. The charm was working. Good.

Graves stuck his head back in the pensieve and began to narrate everything he saw. He liked having information readily at hand when he was working an active investigation. It was a terrible security risk, he acknowledged, but it also helped him solve cases. Graves compromised by keeping his notes under the kind of protection spells more commonly used to protect wizarding banks, and filed them with the rest of the evidence as soon as the case was done.

“Albus Dumbledore represents a weak spot. So far, he’s Grindelwald’s _only_ known weak spot. Whatever falling out the two of them had still pains him.”

He wondered if Dumbledore would tell them what had happened. No one wanted their past indiscretions dragged out into the light for everyone else to see. Even Graves would have flinched at that, and he’d been MACUSA’s in blood and bone for almost as long as he’d been alive. He would have hated it – he _did_ hate it – but he knew his duty.

Dumbledore owed MACUSA nothing.

Graves sighed and went back over the transcript.

He lingered over the sentence _he has no family to guide him, to caution him against actions that might bring harm to those he loves_.

Family. It all came back to family in the end; Grindelwald could spout nonsense about blood purity all he liked, but blood was just another word for family as far as wizarding Europe was concerned. Wizarding America, too. Blood kin meant that there was someone like you, someone who had been raised the way you were, someone who knew the weight of your history and your scars.

Family – _true_ family, whether by blood or binding – meant that you were never alone.

Grindelwald had been alone for decades.

“Family,” he murmured. “Try family, next time.”

The pen dutifully wrote that down. Graves cast _finite incantatem_ on it, tucked both pen and notebook into his jacket pocket, and strode out into the bullpen.

“Summersea!” he barked. “Walk me through what we know about Grindelwald’s family.”

 

*

 

Credence found the newspaper when he went to put the money pouch in Percival’s office for safekeeping. He’d never actually read the _New York Ghost_ , mostly because Percival had a tendency of setting the paper on fire as soon as he came to a headline that made him angry. That generally took just under a minute, from what Credence had observed, and none of the resulting swearing offered explanations as to why.

A photo of Percival was printed on the front page. It had to have been taken at yesterday’s press conference, because he was wearing yesterday’s clothes. He looked serious and grim.

DIRECTOR GRAVES REINSTATED read the headline.

That was fairly unoffensive, as headlines went.

Then Credence read the article. And the continuation on page six. And the three other editorials bearing Percival’s name in bold letters. He read the articles about Seraphina, all of which questioned her judgment and made references to her longtime friendship with Percival.

None of the articles thought that it was a good thing that Percival had returned to work. They thought he was shellshocked at best and a collaborator at worst. They implied that Percival _could not_ do his job as the Director of Magical Security after so long as Mr. Grindelwald’s captive, as though there were something shameful about having survived.

Credence was so angry he couldn’t _think_. He shook with all-over tremors, balling the newspaper up in his hands.

“Credence?” Tina called. Her voice sounded very far away. Credence didn’t realize that she was standing right in front of him until she took his hands in her own. The newspaper had been reduced to ash somehow, staining both their hands black.

Credence wanted – oh, hell, he didn’t know _what_ he wanted. He wanted to lash out, to _hurt_ someone, and that impulse scared him. He had good cause to hate Mr. Grindelwald, and to want to see him dead. Wanting to hurt Mr. Grindelwald was not okay, precisely, but it was justifiable, after everything Mr. Grindelwald had done. Mr. Grindelwald was evil.

Donaldson and the reporters of the _New York Ghost_ weren’t evil. They wrote lies, but that wasn’t enough to justify all the things his rage wanted him to do.

Was this how it had started, with Ma? This awful need to lash out, whether the person she was striking deserved it or not?

“What?” Tina asked, clutching his hands. “No, Credence, of course not. You’re nothing like her.”

“Aren’t I?” Credence asked. He hadn’t realized he’d said any of that out loud.

_“No,”_ Tina said. “Credence, what she did to you, that was wrong. It was as evil as anything she preached about. But that’s not you. You are _nothing_ like her.”

“You don’t know that,” Credence said. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t know him, but it occurred to him that maybe she did. Tina had noticed him, back when he was no one. She’d seen him, and she’d tried to help. No one had ever tried to help him before.

“Yes, I do,” Tina said, stubborn. “You’re my friend. Now tell me what upset you so we can do something about it. Together.”

Credence wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a friend like Tina Goldstein.

He wondered if she’d give him a hug. He wanted one, but he didn’t know how to ask for it. Her stubborn, protective Auror’s nature reminded him very much of Percival.

“I read the paper,” he said. When he put it like that, it sounded stupid. It was just words, after all.

“Oh,” said Tina, with a reflexive scowl.

Her scowl made him feel better. His anger was justified, because Tina was angry too.

“Don’t mind the paper,” Tina said. “It’s written by idiots.”

“Right,” said Credence. “Of course.”

That was what Percival said, too. Percival usually used a lot more profanity, though. And they were probably right, but Credence still wanted to be able to _do_ something about it. To shield Percival somehow, the way Percival always shielded him. He twisted the ring around his finger, thoughtful.

“Director Graves sent a message,” Tina said. She handed him a small rolled up piece of paper.

Credence took it.

 

_Credence,_

_I invited Seraphina home for dinner. Please extend my apologies to Mr. Kowalski; circumstances being what they are, it’s for the best if the two of them don’t meet again just yet._

_We’ll be home around seven._

_All my love,_

_Percival_

_P.S. Please tell Goldstein her transfer has been approved._

 

“Um,” Credence said. He extended the note to Tina.

“Oh,” Tina said tremulously. “I’m an Auror again!”

“I don’t think you ever stopped being an Auror,” Credence observed.

Tina swept him up in a brief, fierce hug. Credence could smell her perfume, pressed as close together as they were. She smelled like jasmine and lily-of-the-valley, and her arms felt as strong and sure around him as Percival’s did. She let him go just as quickly, hollering for Newt and Jacob as she bolted for the kitchen.

“We need to go,” she said, skidding to a halt. “Director Graves has invited President Picquery home for dinner.”

Newt stiffened. “The one who wants to Obliviate Jacob?”

“It’s the law,” Tina reminded him, a bit testily. She didn’t approve of Rappaport’s Law anymore than Newt did.

“A _backwards_ law,” Newt retorted.

“We’re working on it,” Tina said.

Credence looked at Jacob, who just shrugged good naturedly. Credence was starting to think that very little actually bothered Jacob, who accepted everything the wizarding world did with the ease of water rolling off a duck’s back. “What time is dinner?” he asked.

“Percival said they’d be home around seven,” said Credence.

Jacob checked his anti-Obliviation pocket watch. “Plenty of time,” he said. “C’mon, kid, let’s make dinner.”

Newt and Tina both stared at him.

“You want to make dinner,” Newt said, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Jacob correctly.

“I promised I’d teach him how to make pot roast,” Jacob said easily. “Besides, this president of youse is an old friend of Mr. Graves, yeah? Might as well help Credence make a good impression. My pot roast will knock her socks off. She’ll love you,” he assured Credence.

“Are you sure?” Credence asked.

Jacob looked offended. “I never joke about pot roast.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Credence said hastily. “It’s just. It doesn’t seem fair, is all, for you to have to make dinner and not be able to enjoy any of it.”

“I don’t _have_ to make dinner,” Jacob said. “I volunteered, didn’t I? Besides, I’m pretty sure Queenie will take pity on us and cook something even better.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He slanted a thoughtful look at Jacob. Jacob did not seem sorry to be missing out on his own cooking at all, although Tina and Newt certainly did.

Jacob, he noticed, was _much_ better at looking innocent than Newt was.

Well. If that was how Jacob and Queenie were courting, _Credence_ certainly wasn’t going to interfere.

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

“Sure,” said Jacob. “Alright, so the first thing you need to do is sear the beef...”

 

*

 

Credence pulled the roast out of the oven at a quarter to seven and set it on the sideboard to rest while he set the table. The dishes in the safe house were sturdy and serviceable, and the only remarkable thing about them was that they were a remarkable shade of blue.

Maybe blue was Percival’s favorite color. The sweater Percival had asked Mr. Grindelwald to bring him when he’d been sick had been blue. So were the jewels in his shield charm, and the ones Percival wanted to buy him.

Credence rubbed his thumb over the sapphire-studded surface of his ring. He liked the thought of wearing Percival’s colors; the not-so-subtle reminder that he was Percival’s and Percival was his.

It occurred to him that he wanted a reciprocal claim on Percival. He wanted to see Percival in _his_ colors, wearing his mark.

He wondered what that would look like. Percival would look good, no matter what it was, but Credence did not know which color he would claim for his own.

Maybe it was time to find out.

He heard the front door open and went to go greet Percival in the hall.

“Something smells _amazing_ ,” he heard Seraphina say.

“Credence,” Percival breathed, catching Credence up in his arms. His voice was rougher than it had been this morning; it was less alarming today than it had been yesterday, but it still reminded Credence of how Percival always sounded after Mr. Grindelwald had paid their cell a visit. He must have spent a lot of today talking, too.

Credence really should have been expecting the kiss, since Percival did not give two figs for propriety. He didn’t, though, so he found himself thoroughly kissed in front of the _magical president of the United States_ , who also just happened to be Percival’s best friend. He was honestly not sure which of those two titles was more intimidating than the other one.

“I’m starting to think _you_ need the books on wizarding high society etiquette more than I do,” he informed Percival tartly.

Seraphina made a muffled noise Credence suspected was actually laughter and turned away, covering her mouth with one hand. Her shoulders shook, and more muffled noises escaped.

“Just for that, I’m going to introduce you to Grandmama Genevieve,” Percival muttered darkly. He pulled back far enough to actually _look_ at Credence and said, “What are you wearing?”

“Tina took me to Ariadne’s,” said Credence. It was stupid to be nervous in front of Percival, who was very much blinded by love and liked the way Credence looked inside his clothes and out of them. Mostly out of them.

Still. He couldn’t help it. He’d never had anything this fine to wear before. He wanted Percival to see him the way he’d seen himself in the mirror at Ariadne’s: as a proper wizard, as real and as magical as everyone else.

“Do you like it?” he ventured.

Percival’s expression veered abruptly into predatory desire, which Credence took to mean that he liked it very much.

“You’re exquisite,” Percival said, reaching for him again.

_“Aguamenti,”_ said Seraphina, aiming the jet of water from her wand between Percival’s shoulderblades.

“What the fuck,” spluttered Percival.

“Down, boy,” Seraphina drawled.

“Very funny,” Percival said sourly. To Credence, he said, “The papers sometimes refer to me as Seraphina’s attack dog. Mostly because they’ve never met her _actual_ attack dog –”

“Secretary,” Seraphina interjected.

“Professional fixer, which is the same as saying _attack dog_ ,” Percival retorted.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“You do that,” Percival said agreeably. “It’s how he describes himself, once you get enough gigglewater in him,” he explained.

Seraphina sniffed. “It’s better than how _you_ describe yourself,” she said primly.

“How do you describe yourself?” Credence wondered.

Percival smiled crookedly. It made him look younger and lighter – more like the boy Seraphina must have known at Ilvermorny, when it was just the two of them being brilliant and dazzling the rest of the wizarding world.

“Oh, any number of ways over the years,” he said. “When I was younger and more naive, I thought I’d be her knight, because that’s the way it’s done in the old stories.”

His mother’s stories, Credence translated. It was rather sweet, how Percival had taken them to heart. He wondered if their son would do the same.

“These days, I’m her weapon: her sword and shield.”

“My sword, maybe,” Seraphina corrected. “But MACUSA’s shield.”

“Ah,” said Credence. There was no reason for that to make him sad – he _knew_ Percival, after all, and that was an accurate description of how Percival saw himself – but it did. Percival deserved a life of his own, rather than one that consisted of nothing but duty and service. There was nothing wrong with either of those things, not really, but it seemed to Credence that life should have more than that in it.

He _really_ needed to figure out how to make Percival see that his own life mattered. He wasn’t sure how to do that, but he was going to do it if it was the last thing he did.

“How about dinner?” he suggested.

“Yes, please,” Seraphina said. She looked appreciatively over at the neatly set table: the potatoes in their dish and the roast still cooling on the sideboard. “Do you know how to cook the No-Maj way?” she asked, taking a seat to the right of the head of the table.

“A friend is teaching me,” he admitted. “I’m not precise enough to cook with magic yet, and it’s nice to do things with my own hands.”

Credence wasn’t sure what the correct seating arrangement was. It seemed to him that the president ought to have been given the head of the table by default, but this was Percival’s home, and he was the head of the family, so maybe not.

He _really_ wished Percival had gotten him some of those books on high society etiquette. He didn’t like feeling this lost about good manners. It made him feel like Ma was lurking over his shoulder, ready to punish him for some unknown slight.

“That’s very wise of you,” Seraphina said. “It’ll make you appreciate how easy magic makes things, later on.”

“Credence is too practical for that,” Percival said, carving up the roast with neat flicks of his wand. “It took seeing Dindrane using _wingardium leviosa_ to carry her packages to admit that it might be useful.”

Credence looked away from the roast, and did not let him think that if such a spell could be used on food, maybe it could also be used on people. He was fairly certain, from Percival’s scars, that Percival and Mr. Grindelwald both already knew that.

“I have two perfectly good hands, Percival,” he argued. “It seems lazy to use magic to float something when I can pick it up and carry it just as easily.”

“Spoken like a true wizarding parent,” said Seraphina, her voice full of warm amusement. “Children aren’t typically allowed the use of their wands, during the summer holidays,” she explained. “Of course, once they get a taste for it, good luck getting them to stop.”

Credence frowned as he took his own seat. “Why aren’t children allowed to use their wands?” he asked. “That seems cruel.” He’d had magic for what felt like all of ten minutes now, and he’d be damned if he gave it up for so much as a second.

“Mostly for their own safety,” Percival said. “Magic has a tendency of going somewhat awry, if the caster doesn’t know what they’re doing. Kids spend a lot of time setting things on fire or blowing them up until they figure out what they’re doing. The restriction keeps them from practicing magic unsupervised and accidentally hurting themselves.”

“Which isn’t to say that children don’t practice with adult supervision,” Seraphina added. “My grandmama and my aunties taught me a handful of spells before I ever went off to Ilvermorny. It’s harder, with a wand that’s not your own, but that just teaches them to work harder.”

Credence blinked. Percival’s wand didn’t seem all that difficult to work with. Maybe it was because Percival was his husband-to-be.

Percival gave a bark of laughter and set the roast on the table, serving Credence first before offering the platter to Seraphina. “Did I ever tell you how Seraphina and I met?” he asked.

Credence shook his head.

“We met our first week at Ilvermorny,” Percival said. “I’d gotten lost, and I happened on Donaldson – the editor-in-chief of the _Ghost_ – being _very_ rude to Seraphina.”

Seraphina hummed in agreement, serving herself pot roast and potatoes and some of the leftover soup with noodles Credence had made the day before. “He used names no true gentleman would ever call a lady. He had … Hm. Some issues, with my being mixed race, shall we say.”

Credence winced. He’d heard the names people called black people in his old neighborhood. He couldn’t imagine using any of them on Seraphina, who was elegance and poise personified.

“So I punched him in the face,” Percival said cheerfully.

Credence stared at him. “You _what?”_

“Punched him in the face,” Percival repeated.

“Broke his nose, too,” Seraphina added, in tones of one sharing a fond reminiscence. “Mind you, I didn’t need or want Percival’s help with Donaldson, so I punched him in the face. Percival decided that meant I wanted to be friends, and dragged me off to show me how to to throw a _real_ punch, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

Of course he had.

“Donaldson spent some time squawking about his broken nose, so Seraphina fixed it. Ten years old, our first week at Ilvermorny, and she casts and _episkey_ as neatly as any fully grown healer could have,” Percival said. His voice was warm with pride. Credence imagined that he’d sound like that when he described their son’s accomplishment sometime soon. “She shouldn’t have even known how to properly _hold_ a wand at that point.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “You learned at home before you went to Ilvermorny.”

“My aunties indulged me,” Seraphina agreed. “So did Grandmama.”

“And when Grandmama Genevieve teaches you something, you remember it,” Percival added dryly.

“Were you close?” Credence asked. “With each other’s families, I mean.”

That got him identical crooked smiles. “We lived in each other’s pockets until we graduated,” Seraphina admitted. “Dindrane became my adopted big sister, and Grandmama adopted Percival as a grandson.”

“What about your parents?” Credence asked.

Seraphina’s smile turned wistful. “Grandmama’s the only real blood family I’ve got left. She raised me, after my parents died. Geraint and Vivian never tried to replace my parents, but they always made it clear that they considered me part of their family.”

So _that_ was where Percival got his kind heart from, Credence thought.

“Grandmama’s going to love you,” Seraphina confided. She ate a bite of pot roast and made an indecent noise. “Especially if you can cook like this. She might even teach you some of the family recipes.”

“Um,” Credence said, blushing so hard it felt like he’d gotten sunburned.

Seraphina jerked suddenly and glared at Percival. Credence had a sneaking suspicion that Percival had just kicked her under the table, which was rude, but not entirely unwarranted, under the circumstances. Credence did not know if women could take as much pleasure from the marriage bed as men did, but that was _definitely_ a sex noise.

Seraphina jabbed in Percival’s general direction with her fork. Credence suspected she would try to stab him with it if he kicked her again.

Percival ate a bite of his own. “Oh, fuck,” he said, low-voiced and rumbly.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Credence said, mortified. That was – that was how Percival sounded when he was inside of Credence and close to coming, and he absolutely should not ever sound like that at the dinner table. It wasn’t decent.

Percival took another forkful of roast and shoved it into Credence’s mouth. “You’ve learned well,” he said.

The meat was tender, sweetened by the onions and the carrots Jacob had layered in with the potatoes. It was probably the finest cut of meat Credence had ever eaten, outside of the steak dinner from the Waldorf-Astoria Percival had convinced Mr. Grindelwald to feed him.

Jacob was the best cook in the _world_ , Credence decided.

“I have my own portion,” he reminded Percival. “You don’t need to feed me.”

“What if I want to feed you?” Percival countered.

And now he was blushing again. “That’s hardly appropriate behavior.”

Seraphina burst into delighted laughter. “That’s _you_ told,” she crowed. “Grandmama is _definitely_ going to love you,” she said. “She thinks Percival’s manners are atrocious, too.”

“I don’t think Percival’s manners are atrocious,” Credence protested. “Just a bit demonstrative.”

For some reason, that made Seraphina whoop with laughter. “Demonstrative!” she repeated, still laughing.

Credence eyed her warily. He wasn’t sure why she thought that was so funny. He looked over at Percival, hoping for a translation.

“Director Graves has a reputation for being serious and scowling,” Percival told him.

Seraphina finally stopped laughing. “You’re the only one he’s demonstrative with, Credence,” she explained. “There’s a lot of pressure on scions of the Twelve families. They’re held to higher standards than the rest of us; expected to behave certain ways. The Graves name is synonymous with _safety_ and _Auror_ as far as the rest of MACUSA is concerned. Percival generally behaves like he’s duty and honor personified.”

“Stop,” said Percival. “You’ll make me blush, with all these compliments.”

Seraphina gave him a repressive look. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Percival said dismissively.

“Percival’s always held people at arm’s length,” Seraphina continued, around another bite of meat and potatoes. “At Ilvermorny, he was _completely oblivious_ to the fact that dozens of other students were madly in love with him. He didn’t go out with anyone until fifth year, not long after he turned fifteen, and there were three separate betting pools speculating on why.”

“I don’t think Credence needs to hear this,” Percival said.

“I _absolutely_ need to hear this,” Credence said, delighted. He wanted to hear all about what Percival had been like as a boy - partly because he wanted to know what mischief their son might get into, if he took after Percival, and partly because there was nothing about Percival that he did not want to know.

Seraphina grinned wickedly. “Pukwudgie figured he was emotionally stunted and just didn’t notice that people were attracted to him. Most of them bet that he just didn’t notice, but a few of them thought that he did and just didn’t know how to deal with someone else’s feelings.”

Credence huffed a laugh. Percival was amazing with other people’s feelings; he always knew when Credence felt upset or unsure, ready to offer love and reassurance at the drop of a hat. Pukwudgie had _definitely_ bet incorrectly. He felt a little sorry for his almost-House; Pukwudgie represented the heart, but none of them knew Percival’s.

“Horned Serpent figured that Percival was trying to be some kind of warrior ascetic who channeled his hormonal impulses into magical and martial prowess.”

That _did_ sound like something Percival might do, Credence thought.

“And Thunderbird had bets ranging from the idea that he was aware of his hormones to being aware that other people found him attractive, although _all_ of them bet he was just biding his time.”

“What about Wampus?” Credence asked, when Seraphina fell silent.

“Yes,” said Percival, sounding interested. “What about Wampus?”

“Wampus flat-out refused to participate,” said Seraphina. “Half of them were in love with you and the other half worshipped the ground that you walked on.”

“What,” Percival said flatly.

“Some of it might have been lust,” Seraphina mused. “In sixth year, Melody Carson stuck an Emperor’s New Clothes charm to the corridor outside the prefect’s bathroom. There was a whole pride of Wampuses waiting in the hallway just past the charm’s radius when Percival went to go shower after Dueling Club. He rounded the corner and then the charm turned his clothes invisible and -”

“I really don’t think you need to tell Credence the rest of that story,” Percival interrupted.

“And Wampus proceeded to demonstrate their love of all things feline with the sort of cat-calling you’d hear in a -” She winced. Percival had kicked her underneath the table again. “An establishment of ill-repute,” she finished primly, glaring at Percival.

“Oh, dear,” said Credence. He wondered how Seraphina knew what an establishment of ill-repute sounded like, but was too afraid to ask. Mostly because he was pretty sure she’d actually answer him.

“Oh dear indeed,” she agreed. “Mind you, the charm was bad enough, but Wampuses and logic have a tenuous relationship at best. They’ve got confidence in spades, though, which almost explains why Percival wandered out of the bathroom buck naked twenty minutes later. Professor Fontaine gave him detention for a _month_ for walking back to the dorms in the nude.”

“I thought if they had a chance to get a good long look they’d leave me alone,” Percival said, a bit feebly. “It didn’t work,” he told Credence.

Credence thought about how masculine and glorious Percival looked when he was totally naked, all his maleness and desire on display for Credence and Credence alone. “How odd,” he murmured. He gave Percival a suspicious look. “Just how much time _did_ you spend naked at Ilvermorny, anyways?” he asked.

“Er,” said Percival. “Not as much as Seraphina would have you believe?”

Seraphina snorted. “Like I _wanted_ to see your lily-white ass.”

Percival took a determined bite of pot roast. “Did I ever tell you how Seraphina completely embarrassed herself in front of Ariadne?” he asked.

“No,” Credence said gamely, playing along.

Percival told him. He and Seraphina swapped stories back and forth until all of them had eaten their fill.

“I’ve missed this,” Seraphina said quietly, pushing her empty plate aside. “I should get home.”

Percival caught her hand as she stood up. “Stay,” he said.

“You know I can’t,” she told him.

“We’ve plenty of room,” Percival said quietly. “It’s safe here. I’ll keep watch.”

Seraphina’s face went full of awful longing, just for a second. Credence _knew_ that expression, just like he knew what it was like to want something he knew full well he could never, ever have. She needed someplace to feel safe, even if it was only for a little while.

Percival made everyone feel safe. That was what being a Graves meant.

He reached out and grasped the hand Percival wasn’t holding. “Stay,” he said, just as quietly as Percival had. Seraphina was still the magical president of the United States and he didn’t dare give her a command, but he could add his request to Percival’s.

“If the _Ghost_ gets ahold of this, Ramierez will murder you,” she told Percival.

Percival snorted. “The _Ghost_ hasn’t tried to link us romantically since Donaldson sent someone to interview Grandmama Genevieve and she gave them what for,” he pointed out. “No one does set-down’s like Grandmama Genevieve,” he told Credence. “It was _marvelous_. I think I still have a copy of that article somewhere. It was _blistering_ , in a polite, genteel Southern lady sort of way. And that was _before_ her coven got involved. They wrote letters to the editor. Violetta Beauvais - she’s a wandmaker based out of New Orleans; we should go see her - wrote in asking if the _Ghost_ had nothing better to do than speculate on the romantic pursuits of elected officials.”

“I think I’d like to read that,” Credence said. Knowing how to deliver a proper set-down without being rude seemed like the sort of thing it would be useful to know. He wondered if Grandmama Genevieve might be willing to give him lessons.

“If I find it, it’s yours,” promised Percival. “Pick any bedroom you’d like, Seraphina. I’ll see if I can’t find you some pajamas.”

“Thank you,” Seraphina said, and the naked gratitude in her voice hurt to hear.

Percival offered up a set of his own pajamas for Seraphina to use, even though Credence’s would have fit her better. “Those are yours,” he said, when Credence pointed that out. “I’m not going to take your things without asking.”

Credence blinked at him. He wasn’t sure which thought was stranger: the idea that Percival would take anything of his without asking, or the fact that he had things of his own and that his ownership of them was something other people respected.

“You can borrow them, if you like,” he told Seraphina, putting both thoughts aside to mull over later.

“These are fine,” Seraphina said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve borrowed clothing from Percival.”

“It really isn’t,” Percival said dryly. “Although it goes better than when I borrow clothing from you.”

Seraphina snorted. “That blouse looked lovely on you,” she said. “The color really brought out your eyes.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It really did,” Seraphina murmured, sotto voce. “See if you can’t get him to wear bronze every once in awhile. He looks good in it.”

“Percival looks good in anything,” Credence said, unthinking.

Seraphina caught him up in a hug, which startled him. “He’s lucky to have you,” she whispered. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Credence whispered back.

“Good night, both of you,” said Seraphina. She kissed Percival’s cheek and shut the door to her chosen bedroom firmly.

Credence went back down the stairs to deal with the dishes. Percival beat him to it, magicing them clean with a flick of his wand.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that,” Credence said, bemused. “How useful magic is for everyday things.”

“It makes a lot of things easy,” Percival agreed. “Go get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Credence frowned at him. “Where are you going?”

Percival gestured to their living room. “I told Seraphina I’d keep watch.”

Credence folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t be serious.”

Percival gave him a puzzled frown. “Of course I am. I’m a man of my word.”

“Believe me, everyone who’s ever met you knows that,” Credence said. “We’re in a safe house. Exactly four people know where we are, and one of them is _in the house_ with us. You don’t _need_ to keep watch.”

Percival set his jaw, stubborn. “It’s not about need,” he said. “It’s about making Seraphina feel _safe_.”

Personally, Credence thought that it had more to do with Percival’s penchant for self-sacrifice. He felt a little bad for thinking it, because it was uncharitable and a little mean-spirited, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“Fine,” he said, changing tactics. “Then I’ll keep watch with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Percival said instantly. “You need your sleep. For his sake, if not for yours,” he added, reaching out to press a hand against Credence’s belly.

Credence glared at him. “ _I_ can spend all day tomorrow napping,” he pointed out. “ _You_ have to spend tomorrow dealing with Mr. Grindelwald.”

“I can go without sleep,” Percival said. “I’ve done it before.”

“So have I,” Credence said flatly. He rarely slept after Ma used the belt on his back. He’d hurt too much for sleep to be any kind of refuge. “I don’t like the thought of you going up against Mr. Grindelwald if you’re not at your best.”

“I’ll have a full team of Aurors to deal with Grindelwald,” Percival pointed out.

“Do you _actually_ trust any of them to deal with Mr. Grindelwald?”

“... No.”

Credence waited. He had no intention of backing down. Percival would either get some sleep, or he’d have to resign himself to Credence keeping watch with him.

Percival sighed. “Darling,” he began, clearly intending to sweet talk Credence into his way of thinking.

“No,” Credence said immediately.

“Fine,” Percival said, only a little ungraciously. “To bed, then.”

“Good,” said Credence, squashing his triumphant joy. It was not polite to gloat. He unfolded his arms and took Percival’s hand, just to make sure Percival couldn’t change his mind on the way up the stairs. “You should tell me what you think about the outfits I bought at Ariadne’s,” he suggested.

“Yes,” Percival agreed, sounding cheered by the prospect. “Or I could _show_ you what I think of them.”

“Tempting,” Credence said, shutting their bedroom door and locking it behind them. He knew full well that if he let Percival do that, Percival would sneak back downstairs to keep watch while Credence was pleasure-drunk and exhausted from Percival’s attentions. He peeled out of his jacket to distract Percival, watching Percival’s eyes go gratifyingly dark with want. “But I think,” he said slowly, unbuttoning the waistcoat the shopgirl at Ariadne’s said would help hide his pregnancy, “that what I want is to try sucking your cock until you come.”   He wanted to focus on Percival’s pleasure the way that Percival always focused on his.  He didn’t know how to make Percival see that his own life was important, but he could make Percival feel sated and loved.

“Fuck,” Percival said, sounding like he was choking on the word.

“That’s the plan,” Credence agreed.

“I have been a terrible influence on you,” Percival said, not sounding particularly sorry about that.

Credence licked his lips, just to watch Percival choke on his own spit. He took advantage of Percival’s distraction and started to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Percival said, not sounding particularly sorry about that, either.

“Tell me what you like,” Credence said.

Percival did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full version of how Graves and Seraphina met is [on my tumblr](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161747916801/cross-posting-this-from-the-comments-on-ao3-the)


	15. Chapter 15

Credence woke up alone in the small hours of the morning. He sighed and went to use the water closet before trying to track Percival down.

The door to Seraphina’s room was open. Concerned, Credence padded down the stairs, wondering if she and Percival were talking, and if they’d welcome the interruption. They had a terrifying amount of history between them, and while they were generous about sharing it, he didn’t want to intrude on something private.

Percival was dozing on the couch, fingers curled around his wand. There was a terrifying looking knife resting on the couch next to him in easy grabbing distance. Credence hadn’t realized that wizards could use weapons like ordinary folk did.

Maybe that was a Graves thing, like fisticuffs.

Credence shivered. There was only one use for a knife like that, and that was killing other people up close and quiet. He wanted to learn to fight like a proper Graves, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to learn how to do _that._

He tiptoed past Percival into the kitchen, where candlelight shone faintly. Seraphina sat at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea and the other propping her chin up.

She looked better, he thought. Like she’d gotten actually restful sleep rather than just tossing and turning, wondering how Mr. Grindelwald would hurt her loved ones next.

“Hi,” Credence said, a little shy.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, quietly enough that her voice wouldn’t carry much past the kitchen table.

Credence shook his head. “How long has Percival been on the couch?”

“He was already there when I came down here,” Seraphina said.

Of course he was. Credence sighed. Clearly he hadn’t done a good enough job of wearing Percival out. He’d have to work harder at that, in the future.

“It would serve him right if I kept watch with him,” Credence muttered. “I told him I would.”

Seraphina smiled. “You need your rest.”

“So does he,” Credence pointed out.

Her expression turned sad. “I know. I think … I think we may have pushed him to come back to work too soon, because we needed him.” She paused, and forced herself to add, “Because _I_ needed him.”

“He went back for MACUSA,” Credence said. “For his people.” He didn’t know how to help Seraphina, or to ease her burdens, but he could do this much for her at least. He could offer her absolution, because this wasn’t her sin to carry. It was Mr. Grindelwald’s. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s Mr. Grindelwald. If Percival didn’t think he was a threat, he wouldn’t have gone back to work. Mr. Grindelwald is, though, and keeping Percival here while Mr. Grindelwald’s a threat just would have made him crazy.” He thought about the way Percival had been constantly moving in their shared cell, exercising and shadow boxing and practicing combat spells. “I don’t think Percival’s very good at relaxing.”

“He _really_ isn’t,” Seraphina agreed. She sipped her tea. “The Grindelwald affair hasn’t helped matters.” She looked out towards the living room, where Percival rested. “I think it’s brought up a lot of old ghosts.”

Credence went to make a cup of ginger tea. He’d regret that in about thirty minutes – _Expecting the Unexpected_ had not lied about the frequency with which visiting the bathroom became necessary as his pregnancy progressed – but the ritual of making tea was familiar and soothing. “He used to keep watch like this, in our cell,” he admitted. “Not exactly like this – he didn’t have a weapon, or anything – but he’d keep watch like he thought it would keep Mr. Grindelwald away, somehow.”

“He’s always done that,” Seraphina murmured. “For as long as I’ve known him. If he thought someone needed protecting, or that there was a threat, he’d keep watch. The first time someone tried to kill me – _really_ tried to kill me, not just mouthed the words – I’d been president for all of four months. I’d gotten threats on the campaign trail, and after, but I didn’t take them seriously. No politician does, not really. We all get threats. Most of us go our whole careers without anyone ever acting on them.” She tugged her borrowed pajama top up and let him see the strange red-purple scar across her ribs. “Curse scar,” she explained. “Percival had it under a stasis charm before my security detail realized what was happening, and then he went after my attacker. David Bowes didn’t agree with my platform, or some of the reforms I intended to make.” Seraphina shrugged and let the pajama top fall. “Percival stopped him.”

“Did he kill him?” Credence asked.

“Bowes was executed,” Seraphina said. “Percival left him alive, in case the Healers at St. Brigid’s needed more information about the curse he’d used. It’s what Aurors are trained to do.”

“Oh,” said Credence.

“He kept watch, the whole time I was at St. Brigid’s,” Seraphina said. “Aelinor kept me overnight, and he spent the night in my hospital room keeping watch. When Aelinor let me go, he took me back to the brownstone and made me sleep there.” She smiled, wryly. “Will you be very upset with me if I tell you we slept together? Not for sex,” she clarified hastily. “Just for sleeping. I didn’t want to sleep alone.”

“No,” Credence said honestly. He sat down next to her, blowing on his tea to cool it. “You’ve been part of Percival’s life for longer than I have. You’re important to him.”

“Not as important as you,” she pointed out.

“You’re family,” Credence said, feeling shy again. Seraphina was elegant and glamorous and Percival’s best friend. Claiming her as family felt like a presumption of the highest order, but she was Percival’s, which meant that she was Credence’s too. “Besides, Percival’s got a big heart. I don’t mind sharing.”

Seraphina reached out and grasped her hand with his own. “You’ve got a big heart, too. You’re a marvel.”

“Not really,” Credence said, blushing. “I’m just me.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “That’s what makes you special.”

 

*

 

“So,” Hughes said. “To sum up, we’ve got exactly fuckall on the albino prick’s family, because he’s got none.”

“He’s got a great-aunt,” Summersea corrected, long-suffering. “Bathilda Bagshot, noted historian and author. She’s been vetted by the Ministry of Magic, repeatedly. She’s clean.”

“She doesn’t want anything to do with him,” countered Hughes. “And we’ve still got exactly fuckall, so my point stands.”

“Do you _really_ want to debate semantics, Win?” Summersea inquired.

Collins cleared his throat. “You’re both correct,” he said diplomatically, wiggling his eyebrows in Goldstein’s general direction and glowering at them disapprovingly.

“Don’t mind me,” said Goldstein, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Semantics are an important part of police work.”

“Don’t be cheeky, rookie,” Hughes chided. She smirked. “That’s my job.”

Goldstein – who had functioning survival instincts – said nothing. She was clearly _thinking_ something rude, but she managed not to say it, which put her one up on Collins _and_ Norton, who could never resist walking right into Hughes’ traps.

She was going to go far in Major Investigations. Graves was certain of it.

Hughes looked at their Investigation Board. “Albus Dumbledore is the only weak spot we’ve got. We should exploit that.”

“Push him too soon and he’ll clam up. He’s a genocidal megalomaniac, he’s not _stupid,”_ Graves said. “There’s something else he wants, which means he’s got another weak spot we can exploit. We just need to figure out what it _is.”_

“What if what he wants is a family?” Collins asked. “You said that he fixated on the idea of your child serving his. Maybe that’s what he wants.”

Hughes stared at him, incredulous. “Collins,” she said slowly. “Are you suggesting that the genocidal motherfucker who spent six months impersonating our boss has got _baby fever?”_

“He claims he Saw a child,” Collins said defensively. “I don’t know what genocidal megalomaniacs want! Maybe they want kids just like everyone else!”

“Power,” Goldstein said. “They want power. It’s why he wanted Modesty Barebone. He thought he could extract the Obscurus from her and use it for himself. He doesn’t want a family; he wants _power.”_

“Well done,” Graves murmured. Louder, he said, “Goldstein’s right. Grindelwald is no different from any other Dark wizard in that regard; they all want more power.”

“Right,” Hughes said sourly. “He wants to rule the world.”

“No,” said Graves. “Well, yes, but – fuck. I can’t believe I’m rationalizing this. Grindelwald sees the world as being fundamentally broken. The International Statute of Secrecy isn’t something that keeps us safe, it’s something that hurts us, because it keeps us from taking our rightful place in history. He believes we shouldn’t keep ourselves separate from the No-Maj’s: we should rule them, as the superior species.”

Summersea made an unhappy noise. “There’s a lot of folk here who’d agree with him,” he pointed out. “Most of them No-Maj’s. You start making noises about _the right sort_ and _us_ and _them_ and sooner or later the _them_ are gonna get hurt.”

“I know,” Graves said. “Believe me, John, _I know.”_ He ran a hand through his hair. “Grindelwald wants to _fix_ the world. He’s a zealot. He’s not bound by a code, he has no moral qualms and no ethics. There is no atrocity he will not commit so long as he believes that it is in service of his higher goal – his _greater good._ Because it’s not just _his_ greater good: it’s for _all_ of us. He believes he can make the world _better. That’s_ his endgame.”

“That’s insane,” opined Hughes.

“That’s _terrifying,”_ said Goldstein.

“I’m with Tina,” Collins murmured. “Having it laid out like that is the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Summersea looked thoughtful. “He sees himself as the hero of the story,” he said. “Doesn’t he? As a force for the greater good?”

“Probably. History is written by the victors. If he wins, that’s how he’ll write it.”

“Do you think he thinks of himself as a good man?”

Graves thought about that. “I don’t think he knows how to be a good man,” he said eventually. “No one ever taught him how.” Grindelwald’s parents had died when he was a child, and Durmstrang had expelled him for his experiments. Most people didn’t need to be taught how to be good, or told how not to hurt, but Grindelwald wasn’t most people. “He _wants_ people to think of him as a good man, though. He wouldn’t put so much emphasis on the greater good, otherwise.” 

“Good men are more dangerous than bad ones, sometimes,” Summersea observed. “Bad men kill for any number of reasons: for money, for sport, for greed. Good men kill because they believe it’s necessary.”

There was no reason for that to make Graves’ throat go dry. “Yes,” he said.

“Grindelwald did what he did because he thought it was necessary,” Summersea concluded. “What else is he going to think that it’s necessary to do?”

The same thing as me, Graves thought. Out loud, he said, “Whatever it takes.”

“So we have motive,” Collins said. “And his endgame. We just don’t have the means.”

“We have _an_ endgame,” Graves sighed.

“Do you think he has more than one?” Goldstein asked, looking concerned. “He pursued the Obscurial fairly single-mindedly.”

Graves thought about Fuchs’ impression of Grindelwald’s mind: as a cross between the shifting stairs of Hogwarts and the Great Library of MACUSA. He’d never seen Hogwarts, but he’d been to the Library, which was built beneath the New York Metropolitan Public Library. It was the closest thing to a modern day oracle that Graves knew of. The stacks shifted constantly, the books arranging and rearranging themselves based on need and specific inquiries. They never, ever stopped moving.  
Grindelwald’s mind never stopped working either. He had more than one plan, more than one endgame. He’d come to America looking for an Obscurial, but he would have left with the Obscurial and Graves’ son: with his general.

What good was a general without an army, though? Where the hell did Grindelwald plan on _getting_ an army, anyway?

_There’s a lot of folk here who’d agree with him. Most of them No-Maj’s._

Oh.

_Shit._

How much damage could Grindelwald do with an army of No-Maj footsoldiers? Charmed objects would work for No-Maj’s – Mr. Kowalski’s Anti-Obliviation Charm was proof enough of that – it would have been easy for him to arm them; give them just enough magic to make them feel special. _Chosen._ One of his elite, rather than so much cannon fodder. It would be all too easy for Grindelwald to divide the No-Maj’s into _us_ and _them._ They did it to themselves all the time.

“Yeah,” Graves said, feeling the ice cold certainty flood his veins. He’d been a cop long enough to know when to trust his gut. He was right about this. He knew he was. “He had a couple other plans. I’m sure of it.”

 

*

 

Ramirez appeared in Graves’ office just after five. He looked like he normally did: as though his stern, unsmiling face was carved from seasoned oak, and that anyone who annoyed him would find that he had a Pukwudgie’s natural defenses. Pukwudgies had porcupine spines and a mountain lion’s claws when they wanted them, and only a fool assumed that their hearts made them harmless.

Graves was not a fool, and he’d worked with Ramirez long enough to know the man’s tells. Ramirez was a hair’s breadth away from murdering someone on Seraphina’s behalf, and the smart thing to do would have been to let him do it. It would have made Ramirez easier to deal with for one thing, and it would mean one less idiot for Seraphina to deal with for another.

Unfortunately, politics was rarely about doing the smart thing.

He followed Ramirez into the Pentagram Office. The polite hostess from yesterday was gone, leaving a woman who might have been carved from marble in her place: Galatea in reverse.

Graves came to a stop in front of her desk, falling into parade rest on instinct. Seraphina was his president, not his queen, but he was still her weapon.

“Theseus Scamander,” she said.

“Head of British MLE, Order of Merlin, First Class,” Graves said instantly. “Heir to House Scamander, although his father began transferring responsibilities as Head of House to Theseus three years ago. Gifted Auror, specializing in charms and containment. Talented duelist; throw him in a ring with Win and I’m not sure which of the two of them would be the victor.”

Part of him wanted to see that duel, and the other part of him wanted to make sure Theseus and Win were kept as far apart as humanly possible. Preferably on separate continents. He was fairly certain they’d get along like a house on fire, and also that leaving the two of them alone might result in actual arson.

The thought of Theseus anywhere near Goldstein made his head hurt. Goldstein was reckless enough already; he had no desire to see what she’d be like with Theseus as a bad influence.

“You trust him,” Seraphina said.

“Yes,” said Graves. Perhaps not as unreservedly as he once had, but he trusted Theseus.

“The ICW is sending a delegation to discuss the matter of Grindelwald’s extradition. Theseus Scamander will be part of that delegation.” Seraphina steepled her fingers and looked at Graves with banked rage in her dark eyes. “The ICW intends to force our hand.”

Graves snarled, all low, wordless rage. The hell they would. No wonder Ramirez and Seraphina both looked murderous.

“Is it a British delegation, then?” he inquired.

Seraphina pursed her lips. “The British Ministry is providing security. The ICW, as an independent body, is sending the delegation.”

Graves narrowed his eyes. “They mean to censure us for a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy if we don’t hand him over, don’t they.”

“It seems likely.”

Graves snarled again. Not only would that be personally and professionally humiliating for Seraphina, it would damage MACUSA’s standing with the other signatories of the ICW. The repercussions of that would take decades to overcome.

Part of him wanted to march down to Grindelwald’s cell and use the Cruciatus on him until he told Graves everything he knew.

If he went down to Grindelwald’s cell now, it wouldn’t be the Cruciatus Curse he used. It would be the Killing Curse instead. Grindelwald couldn’t hurt anyone if he were dead.

A year ago, the thought of killing an unarmed man in a prison cell would have been anathema. Unthinkable. He was a Graves, and no Graves would do such a thing.

Now, the thought seemed terrifyingly reasonable. He was a Graves, and he would do whatever it took to keep his people safe.

“Can Scamander hold him?” Ramirez asked.

“I’m not sure,” Graves admitted. He thought about all of Theseus’ reckless brilliance during the war; how easy it had been to fight back-to-back with him. None of the others could keep up with them towards the end, when Graves had known what Theseus would be doing and what spells he was casting the same way he knew how his own limbs moved: as easy and as natural as breathing. “He could if I was helping him.”

Ramirez said nothing, but his silence was extremely skeptical.

“The ICW doesn’t want you anywhere near this,” Seraphina murmured. “None of them believe you’ve recovered from your ordeal.”

“I don’t give a fuck what the ICW wants,” Graves retorted. “I serve at the pleasure of the president, and I will continue to serve until you release me from my duties.”

Seraphina tilted her chin up, defiant. “I have done no such thing,” she said. “Nor will I.”

Ramirez made a faint noise, not quite a sigh but not quite not, either. It was a very pukwudgie sort of sound; William used to make similar noises, when he was mentally invoking Isolt Sayre to come save him from the idiocy of wizards.

Graves and Seraphina both gave him inquiring looks.

“Nothing,” he said. “If that settles things, we should let Madam President get back to work.”

“Thank you, Marco,” Seraphina said.

Graves saluted Seraphina with his wand, and followed Ramirez out the door.

Ramirez kept pace with him back to his office. He clearly had something to say, although Graves had no idea what it was.

“If Grindelwald escapes, you’re the one they’ll string up,” Ramirez said.

“Better me than her,” Graves said.

“Better Scamander than either of you.”

Ah. So _that_ was what he wanted to talk about.

“No,” Graves said firmly, because he knew Ramirez. Ramirez was ruthless enough and good enough at what he did to make sure that Theseus took the brunt of the fallout, should Grindelwald escape.

Ramirez made another _Isolt Sayre save me from the idiocy of wizards_ noise. “Your martyr streak stopped being charming when you were eleven,” he said.

“Why does everyone keep telling me I have a martyr streak?” Graves demanded. It was starting to piss him off, honestly.

“Because you do,” said Ramirez. His tone tacked _you idiot_ onto the end of that.

Graves scowled at him. He did not have a fucking martyr streak, thank you very much. He had an appropriate understanding of the risks and enough political clout to survive them.

Ramirez scowled back. “You’ve a family to think of now.”

“So does Theseus,” Graves countered. “We have his family to thank for Grindelwald, in case you’ve forgotten. House Graves owes House Scamander a debt. I’ve no intention of repaying it by throwing Theseus under a carriage. Theseus Scamander is not an acceptable scapegoat.” He eyed Ramirez warily. Ramirez would do whatever he thought was necessary to keep Seraphina and MACUSA safe. Graves understood that – he shared the same instincts – but there were some people you did not do those things to.

“Please,” he said.

Ramirez sighed. “You are such a pain in my ass,” he muttered. “Make sure Grindelwald doesn’t escape, and I won’t use any of my contingency plans.”

“Is one of your contingency plans knifing the bastard and letting the ICW argue over custody of his corpse?”

“I will not confirm or deny any such intent to the Director of Magical Security _in a federal building with surveillance spells,”_ said Ramirez, which meant _yes._

“Pity,” said Graves, which meant _I’d help._ “We’d all be safer if he were dead.”

“I know,” said Ramirez.

Getting along with Ramirez was unnerving. Actually agreeing with the man was worse. Graves resisted the urge to be an asshole just to make things feel like normal again. He grunted something vaguely grateful sounding, and went back to work.

 

*

 

Credence was starting to wonder if Percival had arranged some kind of rota to make sure that he was never left alone. He didn’t think that Percival had, although it did seem like the sort of thing Percival would do.

Still. He was grateful for Dorothy’s company, because he had half a hundred questions about ordinary everyday magic and Dorothy was easier to ask than Percival was. (Nothing Percival did was ordinary, particularly his magic.)

Dorothy didn’t mind his questions, because she had half a hundred of her own about being pregnant.

“I know I should just ask my mother,” she said. “My mother would love to give me advice, but she’s my _mother,_ and talking about –” She made a vague, fluttering hand gesture that Credence thought meant _sex_ or _bodily functions._ “Well. It seemed a bit mortifying, really.”

“Er,” said Credence. He couldn’t even _begin_ to try and imagine having that conversation with Ma. Ma’s explanation of Chastity’s womanly courses had been brief, terrifying, and not especially full of useful information. Asking a friend seemed much safer. “Right. I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be, but I’ll try.”

It was nice, he decided, to be the one people went to with questions rather than the one asking them.

“Would you like to see the room I picked out for a nursery?” he asked, once both of them had temporarily run out of questions.

“Yes!” Dorothy said. “Have you started decorating yet?”

“Not yet,” Credence said, because he hadn’t known that was something people could do. “I don’t really know …”

_How to,_ he did not say. Everyone he knew had the same for white walls. Ma thought decorations were frivolous and sinful; Credence suspected everyone else just didn’t have the money to spend on paint or wallpaper.

“I don’t know what I want yet, either,” Dorothy confided.

“Right,” said Credence, relieved. Still, now that she’d put the idea in his head, it nagged at him. He _could_ redecorate, if he wanted to. He was already planning on replacing the furniture. He could repaint the walls, maybe. Something better than the same white walls everyone had; something _magical._ “I was thinking a crib, maybe there? I’ll need to get rid of the bed, first,” he said, gesturing.

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Dorothy. She shrunk the bed down until it was doll size. “I know,” she said, catching sight of his wide-eyed delight. “Moving is much easier when you’re a witch.”

“I love magic,” Credence said.

“Anything else?”

“The nightstand and the lamp. Which I can pick up,” he added, too late.

Dorothy gave him a surprisingly mischievous grin. “A wizard in your condition shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting, according to Alex. Personally, I think it just makes him feel manly.”

Credence laughed. “Have you had the _with_ child not _a_ child argument yet?”

“No,” Dorothy said darkly. “But we’re going to. Also, that’s very well articulated. I’m going to use that word for word.”

“It worked for me,” Credence said. Hopefully, it would work for Dorothy too, and under better circumstances. “I think…” he said slowly. “I think I want to paint in here.”

“I’d have to look up the paint spell, but we could. What color were you thinking?”

Of course you could use magic to paint. You could use magic for _everything._

“I’m not sure,” Credence said. He wanted things to look nice, especially if there really was a crib that every member of Percival’s family had slept in to use like Newt thought there was. “Green,” he decided, thinking of the little vial that tasted like liquid spring. His luck hadn’t worn off yet, and he wanted to hold onto it a little while longer.

“Green would be pretty,” Dorothy agreed. “I think I’ve got a book of home improvement charms _somewhere._ Let me pop home and look for it. Unless you’d like to come with me?”

“Er,” said Credence. “I might throw up on you. The baby doesn’t like traveling by magic.”

Dorothy shrugged. “Everyone I know has been telling me that I’m going to get thrown up on a lot in about seven months time. I might as well get used to it.”

“That seems … practical.”

“I _really_ hope that’s a symptom I don’t get,” Dorothy said, lacing her fingers with his.

“Me too,” said Credence. “For your sake. It’s –”

Magic whisked them away a second later. They reappeared outside an apartment building in what Credence thought of as one of the better neighborhoods.

_“– Awful,”_ he finished, and was sick into the bushes.

Dorothy patted his shoulders reassuringly. “Let’s go get you some water.”

“Thank you,” Credence said, _scourgifying_ the mess away. He followed Dorothy up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Auror Collins. It was neat and homey and smelled of lemons. He wandered around the living room in delight, looking at the photographs. He found one of what must have been Dorothy’s wedding day, because she was wearing white and beaming.

Credence suddenly had a lot more questions. How _did_ wizards get married, anyway? They didn’t seem to have much use for religion, as far as Credence could tell, but if they weren’t bound together before God, what did they swear on? Magic?

“Here you go,” Dorothy said, handing him a glass of water. “I’ll just be a minute, I promise. I’m pretty sure I know where that book is.”

“Take your time,” Credence said, sipping his water. “I’m not in any hurry. I’ve got time.” He picked up a knitted blanket from the couch and wondered if Dorothy had made it. It was cozy and warm, and he could picture her cuddling with Auror Collins beneath it in the evenings.

He made a note to find a similar blanket, so he could cuddle with Percival.

“Found it!” Dorothy crowed.

“Well,” Credence sighed. “At least there’s nothing in my stomach to throw up.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dorothy said encouragingly, and whisked him home again.

 

*

 

It took the better part of the afternoon to find a shade of green Credence liked. It wasn’t as bright as the potion had been, or as jewel-toned as a Healer’s robes, but he liked it. It was soft without being muted: sage, Dorothy had called it. 

He wondered how Percival would look in sage green.

Dorothy taught him to make soft white dinner rolls by hand. They split one fresh out of the oven, and Credence decided it was the best bread he’d ever eaten. He ate another one after Dorothy went home, because it was delicious, and because he could.

“I hope you like sandwiches,” he told Percival. “Because that’s what we’re having for dinner.” They had cheese and fresh bread and leftover pot roast, which he thought would make _excellent_ sandwiches that they wouldn’t have to ration.

“I do like sandwiches,” Percival agreed, leaning in for a kiss that was all heat and hunger. “How was your day?”

“I learned to bake bread,” Credence said, gesturing to the rolls. “And Dorothy and I repainted the room I want to use for the nursery.”

Percival made a low rumbling noise of pure masculine satisfaction and kissed him again. “Fuck, the things you do to me,” he said, pressing the words into the curve of Credence’s neck. “You’re gorgeous.” He splayed one big hand across Credence’s belly, and Credence couldn’t tell if he meant that Credence was gorgeous in spite of his pregnancy or because of it.

Maybe because of it.

“Is that something you like?” he asked. Percival made a puzzled noise of inquiry, so he clarified that with: “Knowing it’s your child I carry.”

“Fucking hell,” said Percival, looking a bit like someone had smacked him in the back of the head. _“Warn_ a man before you say things like that.”

Credence blinked at him. “Why?”

“So the unexpected dirty talk doesn’t give me a heart attack,” said Percival.

_“What?”_ Credence said. “How was that _dirty?_ It’s - well, probably not normal, but natural.”

“Dirty talk doesn’t mean dirty words,” Percival explained. “Well, it can, but it doesn’t always. Mostly it’s used to describe the kind of talk that turns people on.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “I don’t think I’m going to be very good at that,” he said, apologetic. He could barely manage blasphemy without thinking about Ma washing his mouth out with soap.

“You were doing okay so far,” Percival told him, sounding amused. “Want me to try?”

“God, yes,” Credence breathed. “In our bedroom, though. Not the kitchen.”

“So many rules,” Percival said, with exaggerated mournfulness.

“You’re an Auror. Aren’t you supposed to like rules?”

“Definitely not,” Percival lied cheerfully.

“Of course not,” Credence agreed. “What was I thinking?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Percival said, still sounding cheerful. “You’re not going to think of anything but me for the rest of the night.”

The sudden surge of lust made Credence stumble, as though the strength of his desire was a tangible thing that could be tripped over.

Percival caught him. “Careful, lovely,” he murmured. “I’ve got plans for you. I’m going to strip you out of your nice new clothes and lay you down on our bed and _worship_ you the way you should be worshiped. Spread you out beneath me like a feast and taste you everywhere.”

Credence whimpered. He couldn’t help it. He liked sex with Percival and he liked Percival’s voice and dirty talk combined both of those things in ways that made his whole body burn with desperate arousal.

“Still with me?” Percival asked.

“Yes!”

“Good,” said Percival.

When he could think clearly again, Credence dragged Percival out of bed for the forgotten sandwiches.

“I like the way you spent your day,” Percival said. He hadn’t noticed Credence adding half-sandwiches to his plate every time he polished one off yet, which pleased Credence. Percival had eaten three whole sandwiches so far.

“How was yours?” Credence asked.

“Frustrating, for the most part,” said Percival. “I don’t want to take another run at interrogating Grindelwald until I’ve got something I can use, and the rest of my day was politics. The Bluebird sent a pigeon, though. She’d like you to come in for a check-up on Saturday.” He hesitated. “I’d like to go with you, if I may.”

“Of course,” said Credence. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s your child,” he reminded Percival, because they’d spent a very pleasant fifteen minutes discussing just that.

Sort of.

“It’s your body,” Percival countered. “To say nothing of your health. While I’m concerned with both - I will _always_ be concerned with both - you’re entitled to your privacy and medical autonomy. I’m not going anywhere you don’t want me to be.”

“I want you there,” Credence said firmly. “We’re partners, remember?”

“Yes, we are. Also, if you feed me any more sandwiches I’m going to burst.”

Credence took an enormous bite of the sandwich half he’d been trying to sneak onto Percival’s plate and tried not to look guilty. Trying not to look guilty never worked very well with Ma, who had a sixth sense for sussing out guilt on par with Queenie’s ability to read minds. It didn’t work very well on Percival, either, but Percival doled out kisses rather than slaps.

“I love you,” Credence told him, because life with Percival was so much better than he’d ever dreamed it could be, living with Ma.

Percival smiled at him like the words had lifted some kind of weight from his shoulders. “I love you too.”

 

*

 

They bypassed the controlled chaos of St. Brigid’s emergency room and took an elevator to the floor where Percival said the Bluebird’s office was. There was a house elf in a dove grey pillowcase manning the elevator. Credence made a mental note to ask Newt why house elves didn’t seem to wear clothes. Newt would know.

“Wait here, please,” Percival told Credence, depositing him in what looked like a waiting room. “I want to check on something.”

“Alright,” Credence agreed. “Don’t take too long, though. I don’t want to be late for our appointment.”

“I won’t,” Percival promised, and left Credence to his own devices.

Credence wasn’t alone for very long, though, because Healer Wilkinson wandered through a couple of minutes after Percival left.

“Sorry!” said Healer Wilkinson. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” Then, in slowly dawning tones of recognition, “Credence?”

“Hello, Healer Wilkinson,” Credence said politely. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” said Healer Wilkinson. “How have you been? You look good.”

“I’m well,” Credence assured him, resting a protective hand over the swell of his stomach.

“How is he doing?” Healer Wilkinson asked, making a vague hand gesture in Credence’s general direction.

“Good,” Credence said. “I think. I feel good. I’m just here for a check-up.”

Healer Wilkinson nodded. “I hear the Bluebird’s going to be your primary Healer. Nothing but the best for Percival Graves’ husband.”

Percival reappeared before Credence could think of something to say. “Wilkinson,” he said.

“Graves,” said Healer Wilkinson. “I was just saying hello to Credence.”

Percival nodded. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Healer Wilkinson shrugged. “Healer. Comes with the territory. Good luck with your appointment, Credence.”

“Thanks,” said Credence. “It was nice to see you again.”

“Was he bothering you?” Percival asked, after Healer Wilkinson had gone.

“I think he was just trying to be friendly,” Credence said.

Percival looked doubtful. “Sally says we’re in exam room four.”

“Alright,” said Credence. He followed Percival out of the waiting room and into an exam room, which looked just like the one he’d been in before.

The Bluebird walked in five minutes later. “Hello, Credence,” she said. “You’re looking well.” She looked Percival up and down and sighed.

“Hello to you too,” said Percival.

“Stay,” the Bluebird commanded, pointing a stern finger at him before she walked back out the door.

Credence looked at Percival, but Percival didn’t seem to know what was going on either, if his expression was any indicator.

The Bluebird shoved an apple into Percival’s hands. “Not a word, Graves.”

“I didn’t take you for the nurturing type,” Percival said, ignoring her command.

“I’m married to a chef,” the Bluebird said grumpily. “Feeding people is his thing. It spilled over.”

Percival said nothing, but he managed to make crunching into the apple sound smug.

“Alright,” said the Bluebird. “I’m going to start with a basic diagnostic spell,” she told Credence. “How’s the morning sickness?”

“Gone,” said Credence. “Except when someone uses magic to take me places.”

“Does that happen consistently?” the Bluebird asked.

“Every time. Is that normal?” It _felt_ normal, mostly because it happened _every single time_ but _Expecting the Unexpected_ hadn’t mentioned it.

“For some people,” she said, which made him feel a little better. “It’s your baby’s magic instinctively resisting the spell. According to superstition, it means your child will be magically powerful. There’s not much medical proof to back that up, but I can tell you that the last witch I treated with those symptoms was Vivian Graves.”

“Oh,” said Credence. It was hard to think of vomiting as a good sign, but if the last witch the Bluebird had treated was Percival’s mother, maybe it was. It meant his son would be strong.

“Have Graves feed his magic into the androgenesis spells just before you Apparate anywhere. It’ll help.”

“Oh thank god,” said Credence. He could live with the vomiting if he had to, but he definitely didn’t _like_ it.

“I know,” the Bluebird said sympathetically. “Pregnancy’s not for the faint of heart or the squeamish. Let’s talk about what to expect for the next couple months.”

She outlined a lot of the same symptoms that Expecting the Unexpected had. Heartburn, swollen ankles, congestion, backaches, hip aches, pelvic aches - aches in the whole general region, really. There were potions for almost all of them. Credence was honestly starting to think that there was a potion for everything.

“Stop by the apothecary on your way out. They’ll get you potions that will help. I already put your prescriptions in. Follow the directions and do not even think about doubling up on any of the pain ones. It’s not good for the baby.”

“I won’t,” Credence promised. The idea that anyone considered pain something to be treated rather than endured was going to take some getting used to.

“Good man,” said the Bluebird. “Now, as far as your sex life goes -”

“Oh god,” said Credence, going red all over. He did not want to discuss his sex life with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, even if she _was_ his doctor.

“Don’t get squeamish on me now,” the Bluebird said. “It’s just sex.”

“Sex is meant to be _private,”_ Credence protested.

“The number of sex-related injuries and accidents I’ve treated over the years says otherwise.” The Bluebird gave him a wry smile. “Would you be more comfortable having this conversation with a male Healer?”

“Probably not.” Credence braced himself. “Might as well get it over with.” He took some comfort from the fact that Percival seemed just as embarrassed to be having this conversation as he was.

At least there weren’t any pictures.

“Any questions?” she concluded.

Credence shook his head.

“Send a pigeon if you think of some,” the Bluebird said. “My door will always be open to you.”

Credence tipped his face towards Percival after she'd gone, a silent request to be kissed. Percival obliged, letting his mouth linger sweetly on Credence’s.

“He’s healthy,” Credence said, giddy with elation. “He’s healthy and magical and _strong.”_

“Just like you,” Percival said.

Credence laughed. “Just like _you,”_ he corrected.

“Like both of us. Let’s get your potions and go home.”

“Can we walk for a little while first?” Credence asked. “I want to see the city with you, now that it’s safe.”

“Of course. You can have anything you want.”

 

*

 

On Monday, the _New York Ghost_ had a photo of Credence on the front page.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one. The pacing of this chapter drove me crazy. 
> 
> Many thanks to the glorious [dailandin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin) and [flightinflame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) for the handholding!

Graves’ good mood lasted for all of forty-five seconds into his workday.

He still got glances whenever he walked into the Woolworth Building. He suspected a good number of MACUSA employees found his new scars and his gauntness reassuring in a guilty sort of way: they had visible proof that Graves was not Grindelwald.

These glances were different. Not guilty, or at least not any guiltier than usual, but a peculiar mix of fear and curiosity. It made him feel a bit like a sideshow attraction, and by the time he made it to the elevators he was frowning.

“You look calmer than I thought you would,” said Red.

“Oh, hell,” said Graves, abruptly putting two and two together. Some choice bit of gossip had obviously swept through the building like a forest fire. He was undoubtedly at the center of it, whatever it was, since no one seemed to want to look him in the eye.

Red froze. “You don’t know.”

“Clearly not. What don’t I know, Red?”

“You’re in the papers. It ain’t good.”

“It’s never good,” Graves said. He didn’t like that Red wouldn’t tell him what was going on. Red only got quiet when his instincts as a house elf overwrote nearly fifty years of freedom.

Red thought Graves would punish him for this.

Red twisted his fingers together. Keeping silent wouldn’t help. The instinct to punish himself would rise up, and Red would break his own fingers if Graves didn’t intervene.

“Don’t,” Graves commanded. “You don’t need to tell me, Red. I can find out some other way.”

“Shit,” said Red, looking tired and suddenly frail.

How much strength, Graves wondered, did it take to keep getting up in the morning and remind yourself that being who or what you were wasn’t supposed to hurt? That you didn’t have to be afraid?

Credence could probably tell him, if Graves could find the strength to ask.

“I wouldn’t,” he began, and stopped. Saying _I would never punish you_ would make him feel better, not Red.

Red gave him a withering look. “I know you wouldn’t.” He scowled, looking more like his usual cantankerous self. “You’re the sort of dumbass who’d stick his own hands in the oven rather than order one of us to. None of you Graves’ have ever laid a hand on one of us. We remember things like that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Graves. He hadn’t meant to bring up old wounds.

“Not your fault,” Red said shortly.

The elevator came to a halt at the floor for Major Investigations.

Graves’ team was waiting for him. The rest of Major Investigations was very quietly working very hard on whatever tasks they’d been assigned.

Hughes and Summersea exchanged a look. Both of Hughes’ eyebrows went up in silent inquiry. Summersea shook his head minutely and stepped into the elevator beside Graves. Hughes’ expression went carefully blank as she followed Summersea’s example. Collins and Goldstein stepped in after her.

“The dueling range, please,” Summersea murmured.

“Because _that’s_ going to end well,” Red sighed. He took them to the dueling range anyway.

This early in the morning, the dueling range was guaranteed to be empty. It was practically the only room that would be, and a sudden surge of magic coming from the dueling range wouldn’t worry anyone if Graves lost his temper the way that Summersea and Hughes seemed to think he was going to. No one but his team would see him lose control.

He would be grateful for that later. Right now, not knowing why everyone else was looking at him like unexploded ordinance was starting to put a faint curl of anger in his belly that curdled sourly against the feeling of dread.

Hughes pulled a newspaper out of her coat and handed it to him.

Graves looked down, half-expecting to see something scandalous and insulting about Seraphina going home with him, and saw a picture of Credence’s sweet, shy smile instead.

 

*

 

__**GRAVES ESCORTS PREGNANT SECOND CAPTIVE TO HOSPITAL**  
WHO IS THE BABY DADDY?  
Adrienne Gallagher, Investigative Reporter 

_MACUSA’s own Director of Magical Security Percival Graves was spotted leaving St. Brigid’s Hospital Saturday afternoon. Those of you who have been paying attention to recent events will recall that Director Graves is still recovering from his lengthy ordeal as Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald’s captive, despite a premature and ill-advised return to work. It would be reasonable to assume that the appointment was for Director Graves, who has not yet physically recovered from his treatment at Grindelwald’s hands, had Director Graves not been spotted escorting a pregnant young wizard to and from the hospital as well._

_The wizard in Director Graves’ company has been identified as Credence Barebone, formerly of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, a No-Maj hate group devoted to bringing about a new round of Salem Witch Trials to eradicate wizardkind. Mr. Barebone is the adopted son of Mary Lou Barebone – a known descendent of Scourer Bartholomew Barebone – the former leader of the NSPS, who perished in the Obscurial’s last attack._

_An anonymous source revealed that Mr. Barebone is also Grindelwald’s rumored second captive. Given Mr. Barebone’s condition, it seems likely that he became pregnant during his time as Grindelwald’s prisoner._

_The identity of Mr. Barebone’s baby daddy is currently unknown. Mr. Barebone could, even now, be one of Grindelwald’s fanatics - one so devoted that he willingly carries Grindelwald’s heir. Could a dangerous fanatic even now be walking free among us?_

_It has also been suggested that Mr. Barebone’s child was fathered by Director Graves. Director Graves’ presence at his side at St. Brigid’s hospital supports the latter theory. If Mr. Barebone carries Director Graves’ secret love child, then it raises the question of whether or not Director Graves was Grindelwald’s collaborator rather than his captive once again. Given the notorious complexity of the androgenesis spells, it seems unlikely that any right-thinking wizard would attempt to create a life while being held prisoner in such supposedly perilous conditions. This is not the first time evidence that contradicts Press Secretary Elisabeth Maplethorpe’s narrative that Director Graves was a prisoner of war has come to light, although it is, perhaps, the most damning._

_Very little is known about Mr. Barebone. His birth and early life are a mystery, and Wizarding America has not seen hide nor hair of the man since Grindelwald’s capture. He was unavailable for comment during the writing of this article, and this reporter is left to wonder: just who is Credence Barebone, and whose side is he on?_

 

*

 

Graves did not consciously remember losing control of his magic, or bowling his team over in a tidal wave of rage and killing intent. He watched them struggle to their feet, too angry to worry about whether or not they’d been hurt. Graves cursed the anti-Apparition wards that were laid into the framework of every floor of the Woolworth Building. He stalked towards the door. He’d get outside, and then he’d Apparate to the headquarters of the _New York Ghost_ and slit Donaldson’s throat. Summersea stepped in front of the door before he reached it. He had his black walnut wand drawn, even though he knew Graves would see that as a threat.

“Get out of my way, John,” Graves growled.

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“I said _move,”_ Graves roared, raising his own wand.

Hughes hit him with a Knockback jinx, sending him stumbling. Graves turned and cast a reflexive _petrificus totalus._ She flung herself to the floor to avoid it and rolled right back to her feet, coming up casting spells as she did.

“Sorry, boss,” she said. “You gotta get through us if you wanna get out of here.”

“I am never listening to the two of you ever again,” Collins swore, fingers wrapped tight around his own wand. “Your ideas are the _worst.”_ He squared his shoulders and stepped up next to Hughes. “I don’t know what you’re planning, sir, but we can’t let you do it.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Graves said. “I broke _Grindelwald’s_ wards, do you really think the three of you can stop me?”

“Four,” Goldstein said. Her voice trembled, but her wand hand was steady. “I dueled with Grindelwald, when he looked like you. I can duel with you, too.” Her eyes were very wide and dark and terrified.

He was supposed to teach her: to be her mentor. Your mentors weren’t supposed to terrify you.

 _“Fuck.”_ Graves wrestled his temper and his magic back under his control, swallowing down the rage the way he’d learned to in Grindelwald’s cell.

It didn’t help.

Graves balled his hands into fists. He wanted to lash out: to hit something. For a second, he desperately missed the No-Maj gym he used to frequent before his capture. No one at Fogwells knew who he was and no one cared. No one paid any attention to the way he fought, looking for weaknesses to exploit. And if Graves wanted to go whale on the heavy bag until his knuckles bled through the tape, no one cared about that either, as long as he cleaned up afterwards.

He made himself take deep, slow breaths and straightened his clothes, smoothing his hair back into place as though nothing had ever happened. He needed to be Director Graves now, Head of Magical Law Enforcement. He could not afford to play the furious lover _or_ the terrified father. He had to keep Credence and their child _safe,_ and he could not do that by playing Donaldson’s games.

Graves walked back to his team, taking care to meet each of their eyes as he did so. Hughes and Summersea relaxed minutely at the show of control; they knew him long enough to recognize that he wasn’t going to lose his temper again, no matter how hard he was pushed. Collins looked wary but willing to trust him. Goldstein looked like she found his neatly turned out appearance and bland expression more terrifying than his initial loss of control.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’ve done the same for us,” Summersea demurred.

“We’ve got your back,” said Hughes. “You done being a scary fucking asshole? I think Collins is going to have nightmares.”

“I’m done,” Graves confirmed. “And I’m sorry.” He looked at Collins and Goldstein as he said it. Collins relaxed a little more. His faith in Graves was humbling.

Goldstein’s expression suggested that she wasn’t about to let a little thing like her boss turning into a scary fucking asshole slow her down for very long. Especially, he realized, since she’d already seen it happen once before, with Grindelwald.

 _Fuck._ He was a jackass of the highest order. He had a duty to _teach_ Goldstein, to guide and protect her until she could stand on her own two feet as the Auror he knew she would be. He wasn’t supposed to shellshock her.

He made a mental note to apologize to her one-on-one, later.

“Alright,” Graves said. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Is he always like this?” Goldstein asked, quietly enough that he could pretend to ignore it if he wanted.

“Like what?” Collins whispered back.

Graves caught a flailing hand gesture out of the corner of his eye. 

“Normal,” hissed Goldstein. “After – _you know.”_

Throwing a temper tantrum, Graves filled in. He suspected Goldstein would have been more diplomatic about it, but that was what he’d done.

“Pretty much,” Collins said. “He’s Director Graves.”

Yes, thought Graves. That was who he was.

He thought about Credence: about the fierce, possessive way Credence had kissed him before sending him off to face the Special Tribunal. _Go be the Director of Magical Security. Then come back to me._

That was exactly what Graves intended to do.

 

*

 

“You send mail by _pigeon,”_ Credence said, trying to wrap his head around that. There was no reason for that to seem stranger than anything else he’d learned about the wizarding world so far, but the wizarding postal system just didn’t make _sense._ Why pigeons? And how did the pigeons know where to go?

“In the city, yes,” Dorothy said. “No one looks twice at pigeons here. Out in the country, people use doves or owls, sometimes. Ilvermorny sends ravens.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “Are they magic pigeons? How do they know where to go?”

“I have no idea,” Dorothy confessed. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“I’ll ask Newt,” Credence decided. “If I had a letter I wanted to send, is there some place I can do that?”

“Of course,” Dorothy said. “I can take you to a pigeon post office.”

“Would you?” Credence asked. He took a fortifying tablespoon of Bessie’s Baby Balm, which settled his stomach enough that he didn’t vomit everywhere post-Apparition. He just really _wanted_ to, and inevitably wound up doing so on the return trip. Still, anything was better than puking into the bushes like some kind of drunken vagrant.

Dorothy tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and Apparated them to the alley behind Macy’s.

“Ugh,” said Credence, resisting the urge to dry heave.

Dorothy patted his back sympathetically. “You didn’t throw up this time,” she said. “That’s good.”

“I might,” Credence groaned. Dorothy’s cheerful optimism was a bit much in the face of overwhelming nausea. He wanted Percival, whose silent support was much easier to bear.

“You can if you need to,” Dorothy told him.

“No,” Credence said firmly. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Wizarding New York was every bit as fantastic as he remembered. Credence thought, because he was seeing it for the second time, that he wouldn’t stare as much as he had the first time, but of course he did. He kept seeing things he’d _missed_ the first time through: a bookshop, a florist that sold plants like Percival’s venomous tentacula. It might have been where Helena came from, come to think of it.

The pigeon post office was not very far into the square. Dorothy turned faintly green when the musty bird smell hit her. Credence shoved the bottle of Bessie’s Baby Balm into her hands as she hurried out the door.

The clerk looked perplexed by Dorothy’s sudden retreat, but pasted on a bright smile as Credence approached the counter. She was about his age, Credence thought, and had red painted lips and thick rimmed glasses. Ma said any woman who painted her lips was a harlot, but Credence thought she looked nice.

“Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I need to mail a letter,” Credence said, pulling the letter he’d written Dindrane out of his pocket. “I don’t have an address, though.”

The clerk peered at the envelope. “For the Fisher Institute? Our birds can find that easy, no address necessary. They’re not like those half-trained birds at Pigeon Express,” she added, a touch indignantly. “Would you like to meet one? They’re very sweet.”

She pulled a pigeon out of the wide pocket of her apron before Credence could say no.

“Hello,” Credence said to the pigeon.

“This is Asher,” the clerk informed him, tipping the pigeon into Credence’s hand. “He’s quite cuddly, for a pigeon. If you pet him, he’ll probably be your friend forever.”

Credence petted the pigeon. Asher stared at him with befuddled black eyes, and then relaxed into Credence’s palm until it looked like Credence was holding a puddle of feathers.

“He likes you!” said the clerk.

“He seems very sweet,” Credence said. “How much does it cost to send a letter?”

“Just a penny dragot,” the clerk told him.

Credence fumbled for the right coin. Dorothy burst in a second later, startling him badly enough that coins scattered everywhere.

“We should go,” she said. “We need to go home _now.”_

“What’s wrong?” Credence demanded. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dorothy said, wincing when the door slammed open again. “But –”

“Mercy Lewis, it _is_ him,” someone breathed, sounding like they’d just found Percival’s Holy Grail. “Hey, Barebone, give us a smile.”

Credence threw one hand up, defensive, when someone else made a too-quick movement out of the corner of his eye.

“So whose baby is it?” a man in a pork pie hat demanded.

“What?” Credence asked, feeling something like panic clawing up the back of his throat. Only the fact that he was still holding a pigeon kept him from automatically dropping a protective hand against the clothing-camouflaged swell of his stomach.

“Who’s the father?” the first man asked. He had a camera, which had been the source of the quick movement a second ago. He raised it up again.

“Is it Graves?” the man in the pork pie hat asked. “Or was it Grindelwald? You were the second prisoner, weren’t you?”

Credence realized, somewhat belatedly, that they were _reporters._ Maybe even some of the same ones who had written such awful things about Percival.

“Come on,” Dorothy urged him quietly. “Let’s go home.”

“Home, eh?” said the man in the pork pie hat. “And who are you, sweetheart? How do you know Mr. Barebone?”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” Dorothy said, pulling her wand out. “And it’s none of your business.”

“Easy, sweetheart,” said the man in the pork pie hat. “There’s no need for that. We’re just having a friendly chat.” He reached a hand out towards Dorothy.

Dorothy flinched.

Credence shoved Asher into his coat pocket and knocked the man’s hand aside. Rage and magic simmered just beneath his skin. How dare this man cast aspersions on Percival’s character. How _dare_ he ask if _Mr. Grindelwald_ had fathered his son – as if Credence would have ever betrayed Percival and gone willingly to Mr. Grindelwald’s bed. _How dare he frighten Dorothy._

“Leave her alone,” he snarled.

The man in the pork pie hat grinned, as if being snarled at was exactly what he wanted. “It’s Grindelwald’s, isn’t it?” he asked.

“My baby is none of your business,” Credence snapped, reaching for Dorothy’s arm.

Dorothy grabbed it, still pointing her wand at the reporters. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she hissed.

“My money’s on Graves,” said the man with the camera. “No bridegift, Mr. Barebone?”

Credence ignored him.

The man with the camera reached out and grabbed Credence’s arm as they left the pigeon post office, wrenching it back the way Ma used to when Credence was small and tried to flee instead of submitting to his punishments.

Credence jerked his wrist free, shoving the reporter away. He wished he knew defensive spells – any defensive spell would have done, even the awful one Mr. Grindelwald had used on Percival – but the only one that he knew of was the warming charm that had gone wrong. _“Modestum solis!”_ he snapped, thinking about hellfire and brimstone and the eternal damnation Ma said was waiting.

The reporter’s camera burst into flames. He yelped and dropped it, his expression turning ugly. “That was a forty dragot camera, you little bitch!”

“Take one more step near him and I’ll hex you,” Dorothy said.

“Near either of us,” Credence said. He was pretty sure he could direct his weaponized warming charm if he had to.

Newt, Queenie and Jacob appeared next to them in a swirl of magic.

“You should probably leave now,” Newt advised the reporters, putting his body between the man who no longer had a camera and Credence.

Jacob stepped up, putting himself between Credence and the man in the pork pie hat. “Credence? These guys bothering youse?” There was a scowl on his normally affable face: a dark expression that did not belong there. For the first time, Credence thought he looked like someone who’d been to war – like someone dangerous.

“They’re not worth the time it would take to deal with them,” Credence said coldly. “Have you come to escort us home?”

“Director Graves asked us to find you before any of these people could,” Queenie said. She made _these people_ sound like _scum-sucking bottom feeders._ “We’re a little late, it seems.”

“Thank you,” Credence told her. He nodded at Dorothy, who Apparated them both back to the safe house.

 

*

 

Everyone settled into the kitchen after hasty introductions had been made, politely pretending that Credence had not just spent the last five minutes dealing with Apparition-induced vomiting. Credence clutched his mug of ginger tea like it was sacramental wine and thought, I’m glad you’re healthy, baby, but couldn’t you give your poor Papa a _little_ break from the vomiting?

Credence felt a wriggling sensation near his midsection and startled, because that did _not_ feel like the baby.

Asher the pigeon stuck his head out of Credence’s pocket.

“Um,” said Credence. “I think I stole a pigeon.” He pulled Asher out of his pocket and set him on the table.

“Oh, hello,” Newt said. “You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?”

Asher preened.

“You dropped twenty dragots in the post office,” said Dorothy. “I think you bought him.”

“Right.” Credence would worry about the moral implications of that later. Right now, he had a few more important questions. Namely, “What did those reporters _want?_ Why were they asking about my baby? How do they even _know_ about my baby?”

“Someone leaked the story to the press,” Queenie said. “You’re on the front page.”

“You needn’t read the story if you don’t want to,” Newt said kindly. “It’s nothing but sensationalist garbage. But I brought a copy, just in case you wanted to.”

That was one of the things Credence liked about Newt. Newt never made assumptions about other people’s strength, or lack thereof. He trusted them to make their own decisions.

Credence set his jaw. “I want to read it.”

“Sensationalist garbage is a bit generous,” Dorothy said, when they had both finished reading the article.

Credence folded the newspaper so that he could no longer see his face – smiling and happy and comfortable in what _should_ have been a private moment and wasn’t – and hugged his arms, as though he could physically hold back his anger.

“Credence?” Jacob asked, looking worried.

“They think I’m one of Mr. Grindelwald’s followers,” Credence said. His voice shook with rage. “They think that I let – that I would _betray_ Percival like that. They think _my son_ is a story; they don’t care about him, or me, or anyone else.”

“What they think doesn’t matter,” Dorothy said fiercely. “No one who knows you _or_ the Director would ever believe that nonsense.”

“No one knows me,” Credence said.

“Everyone knows the Director, though,” Queenie said.

Credence shook his head. “That’s not good enough. Percival’s reputation didn’t stop the _Ghost_ from running that – that _garbage._ I need to do something to _fix_ this.” He considered that. “I need to make them _see me._ As a person, and as someone they should listen to. Could I meet with Donaldson?”

“That … does not sound like a good idea,” Dorothy said carefully.

“What about someone else?” Credence persisted. “A reporter, maybe. Someone who would listen to me and write a _fair_ story about what it was like to be _trapped_ and at Mr. Grindelwald’s mercy – not that he had any.”

Queenie and Dorothy exchanged a look.

“You knew Victoria better than I did,” Queenie said.

“She’d help, though,” Dorothy answered.

“Well, yes,” Queenie said, as if it were simply a fact of life. The sky was blue, water was wet and Victoria – whoever she was – would help. “Once a Pukwudgie…”

“Always a Pukwudgie,” Dorothy finished.

What was it like, Credence wondered, to have that kind of solidarity with other people? To know that you all had something in common – something as simple as your House at school – and know that it meant that you had people in your corner? To have a support network that extended beyond just yourself or your family.

“Victoria’s sister Verity is a reporter,” Queenie explained. “She writes for _Moment_ magazine. _Moment_ would _love_ to scoop the _Ghost.”_

“Could you introduce us?” Credence asked Dorothy.

She beamed at him. “Of course.”

Credence picked up the newspaper again. He wished that he _could_ talk to someone at the _Ghost,_ if only to give them a piece of his mind. Maybe he could write a letter to the editor.

He wished he knew how to deliver a proper set-down, like Seraphina’s grandmother. He wondered if Seraphina’s grandmother would be willing to teach him how.

He picked up the newspaper again. As far as he knew, this was the first picture anyone had ever taken of him. It was not a _bad_ picture, he decided. The version of him in the picture looked comfortable at Percival’s side: like he belonged there. Like a proper wizard.

Proper wizards had wands, though. And they knew how to defend themselves.

He needed a wand if he was going to defend himself properly. Then he could make sure that no one frightened or hurt the people he cared about ever again.

“I know that look,” Jacob said, getting to his feet. “That’s a Tina look.”

Credence blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tina gets this look when she’s plotting rebellion,” Newt explained. “You did look rather similar.”

Credence smiled, pleased by the comparison. Tina was fierce and brave and _good._

“She’s the best,” Queenie said.

Credence had not forgotten, exactly, that Queenie could read minds, but having her confirm his thoughts reminded him abruptly that she could. “Could you teach me how to build fences?” he asked, desperately trying not to think about Percival.

Naked.

In their kitchen.

Queenie squeaked.

“Queenie?” Jacob asked, instantly concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Queenie assured him.

“Right,” Jacob said, faintly disbelieving. “Newt, you want a hand feeding everyone?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

“I think I’ll get a headstart on dinner,” Dorothy decided. “Credence, can I borrow your pigeon? I’d like to send a note to Alex and let him know where I am.”

“Sure,” said Credence, retreating to the living room with Queenie.

“I don’t know if I’m the best person to explain this,” Queenie said apologetically. “I’m usually on the other side. The Director’s just about the strongest Occlumens in MACUSA; he could explain it better.”

“Please?” Credence asked.

“I’ll do my best,” Queenie said.

 

*

 

“You don’t look well,” Grindelwald observed. “You should have taken more time off before returning to work.”

“Your concern for my welfare is touching, seeing as you’re responsible for my injuries,” said Graves.

“If you find yourself unable to fulfill your duties, I think I’ve already proven that I am an effective replacement.” Grindelwald smiled at him. “Seeing as none of them noticed you weren’t yourself.”

“Please,” Graves said. “You spent the last two months skiving off work to chase the Obscurial, which you couldn’t find because you haven’t the faintest idea of how to conduct a proper investigation. You were a terrible Director of Magical Security. Besides, we both know that a life of honorable service isn’t in your nature. You intend to rule.”

“I do so enjoy how self-aware you are, Percival. It’s quite refreshing. I hope my general inherits that trait from you.”

Graves ground his teeth and refused to swallow the bait. “You do realize that you can’t custom design a baby, right? That’s not how babies are made.” He paused. “Please tell me I don’t need to give you the Talk.”

Grindelwald looked affronted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Grindelwald. A boy learns these things from his father, and yours died before he could teach you how to be a man and not a genocidal terrorist. You wouldn’t have had to learn the androgenesis spells from a book, otherwise.”

“Did _you_ learn those spells from your father?” Grindelwald asked. “How unexpected. You Americans are so very … forthright. It’s quite uncivilized of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I learned those from a qualified Healer, the way you’re supposed to,” Graves told him, with just enough _everyone knows that you idiot_ in his voice to sting. “I learned the contraception charms from my father. He told me if I got anyone pregnant out of wedlock before I made full Auror, he’d hex my balls off. He was a very effective teacher, my father. But the main thing I learned from him was how to protect people, rather than hurt them. It’s a lesson I hope to pass on to my own son.”

This wasn’t working. Grindelwald wasn’t swallowing his bait either. Whatever Grindelwald’s hang-up about family was, it had nothing to do with his own.

Time to try something else, then.

“I think you mean my general,” Grindelwald purred, all silk and malice.

“Do I?” Graves purred back, voice thick with suggestion. “I don’t think I do. You don’t want my son as your general – he’s your insurance policy. Your guarantee against what you really want.”

Grindelwald leaned forward, intrigued. “And just what is it that you think I really want?”

“Me,” said Graves.

“You flatter yourself, Percival. You have a certain rough charm, but you’re not my type.”

Graves resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Thank you for _that_ mental image. And you say _I’m_ the vulgar one. I didn’t mean you wanted me for bedsport. You want me as your general. I’m powerful, fully trained and a veteran of the Great War. My name and my bloodline would add legitimacy to your cause here in America.”

Grindelwald hummed thoughtfully. “I’d have to put a bit more effort into breaking you, first,” he said. He sounded like he was looking forward to it. “I’d keep Credence and my general alive, as insurance to ensure your compliance at first. You’d resist, of course. It’s not in your nature to submit quietly to your fate. But if you stepped out of line, it wouldn’t be you I’d hurt.”

“No,” Graves said, because he knew Grindelwald well enough to guess who he’d hurt. “You’d hurt Credence.”

“I wouldn’t lay a hand on dear Credence,” Grindelwald said, sounding faintly affronted at the thought. “I’d make you do it. The guilt would break you faster than anything I could inflict on you.”

Yes. Yes, it would. Graves didn’t need to say that, though. They both knew it was true.

“And where do you see Albus Dumbledore in all of this?” Graves inquired. “Do you really think he’s the sort of man to stand idly by and _watch_ as you torture unarmed hostages? He’d be leading the resistance in under a week.”

“Do not,” Grindelwald hissed, “speak of Albus as though you know him.”

Graves smirked. He hadn’t heard back from Dumbledore yet, but Grindelwald didn’t know that. “He would, though,” he pointed out. “The man’s a schoolteacher, for magic’s sake. Someone who decided to guide and shape young minds – to safeguard our future. He’d see it as his duty to stop you. He’s powerful, and he’s probably the only person left alive who really _knows_ you. He’d see himself as the only one who _could_ stop you.”

Grindelwald laughed at him. “You don’t know him at all. Albus doesn’t share your devotion to duty. He’ll let his – he’ll let someone else confront me first, and once that person can no longer trouble either of us, he’ll tell himself that it wasn’t his fault; that it was mine. And I will let him, because I have the strength to bear what he cannot, but Albus will not try to stop me.”

Graves raised his eyebrows. “Second best _and_ a coward. You’re not much of a sweet talker, are you?”

“I never said that!” Grindelwald snapped, narrowing his eyes.

Graves braced himself for a round of the Cruciatus Curse that was not coming, because that was what that expression always meant.

Grindelwald saw it and laughed. _“Crucio,”_ he said, low and mocking. He was still wearing the transfigured magic-suppressing collar, and he had a fresh set of magic-suppressing cuffs around his wrists. He couldn’t have cast the spell even if he’d wanted to, but there was no intent behind it. He just wanted to see if Graves would flinch.

“Be careful, Grindelwald,” Graves said softly. “Or I might start taking pages out of _your_ book and cast a few curses of my own.”

Grindelwald sneered at him. “Your tiresome morality would never permit you to do that. It wouldn’t be honorable.”

“I think you’ll find that desperate men care very little for honor,” Graves pointed out.

Grindelwald tilted his head to one side, considering. “Are you desperate?”

“Yes.” There was no shame in admitting that. Grindelwald would see it as a weakness, not a threat.

Grindelwald had no idea what it was like to be desperate.

“How unexpectedly delightful,” Grindelwald murmured.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Graves advised. “You won’t enjoy much of anything in Azkaban.”

“Do you really believe Azkaban can hold me?”

“No.”

“No?” Grindelwald’s eerie, mismatched eyes bore into him, like he was trying to divine Graves’ secrets. “It almost sounds like you’re looking forward to that.”

“I’m a man of my word. I promised you that you’d die like a No-Maj, and that no one would remember your name. I’m looking forward to keeping that promise.”

Grindelwald smiled at him. “Well, then. I look forward to our rematch.”

Me too, Graves thought. Aloud, he said, “Take him back to his cell.”

“Merlin’s hairy nutsack,” Hughes breathed. “Is this going to be a thing?” she demanded, as they made their way back to Major Investigations.

“Is what going to be a thing?” Graves asked absently.

“You and the albino prick and the mindgames. Fuck _damn,_ I don’t know what I need more – a shower or a drink.” Hughes shuddered.

Graves glanced at Summersea. There were faint lines of tension around Summersea’s mouth and eyes. He was just as disturbed as Hughes was.

“I can find another team to sit in on the interrogations, if you’d like.”

“Absolutely not,” snapped Summersea. “We’re the senior members of your team. If you’re going to continue conducting the interrogations, then we will continue to guard your back during them.”

“We failed you once,” Hughes admitted, low-voiced and ashamed. “We’re not fucking doing it again.”

“You didn’t fail anyone, least of all me,” Graves began. He stopped when Collins and Goldstein rounded a corner and made a beeline for the three of them. Both of them looked furious. “What happened?”

“Some reporters from the _Ghost_ started harassing Dorothy and Credence outside of a pigeon post office,” Collins snarled.

“They’re fine,” Goldstein added hastily. “Queenie and Newt and Jacob got them out of there in time. Queenie says they’re more angry than shaken.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Collins said darkly.

“Let me handle this,” Graves said.

 _“Sir,”_ protested Collins.

“I _said_ let me handle this,” Graves said again.

“They frightened Dorothy,” said Collins. “They frightened my wife. My _pregnant_ wife.”

“Oh, shit,” breathed Hughes, eyes going big and round behind her glasses. Summersea looked just as surprised.

This was the first any of them were hearing of it, then.

“Congratulations, Alex,” Graves said.

“Thank you, sir,” Collins said stiffly.

“I’ll deal with the _Ghost,”_ Graves promised.

“The way you wanted to deal with them this morning?” Summersea asked skeptically.

“I’ve no intention of killing anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about a lot more than that,” said Summersea.

Graves sighed. “I’ve no right to ask this of you, but please, trust me. I can do something about this.”

Collins bristled. “And I can’t?”

“There are things I can get away with that you can’t,” Graves said gently.

“Because you’re a descendant of the Twelve and Madam President’s best friend,” Collins said. “That’s nepotism, sir.”

“I know,” said Graves. “It’s not a hand I like playing, but I’m willing to, for Credence and Dorothy.”

Collins clenched his jaw. “If you’re going to break Donaldson’s nose again, make sure you hit him one for me too.”

Graves grinned at him, savage and toothy. “I think I can manage that. You’ll stand guard at the safe house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man,” Graves said.

 

*

 

The _New York Ghost_ was headquartered in downtown New York, not far from the Woolworth Building or the entrance to wizarding New York’s shopping district. It was heavily warded against No-Maj’s but not Apparition. It took a lot of time and power to ward a building against Apparition, so the Woolworth Building and Ilvermorny were the only two public spaces that Graves knew of that had been warded.

Graves didn’t bother Apparating into the _Ghost’s_ HQ. He stalked through the bullpen and headed for Donaldson’s corner office, breezing past Donaldson’s secretary – a pretty blonde witch who had the misfortune to be Donaldson’s type. It was probably why he’d hired her. Donaldson was the sort of asshole who got handsy with the help.

“What the _hell_ do you think –” Donaldson stopped as soon as he caught sight of Graves’ face. “You. What the hell do _you_ want?”

Graves gave him a wampus cat’s smile, all teeth and threatening malice. “Hello, Donaldson,” he purred. “I thought you and I could have a chat.”

“Make an appointment with my secretary,” Donaldson snapped. “I should have some time free the next weekend after never. Elsie!” he bellowed.

“Don’t take this out of her. She couldn’t stop me,” Graves said.

“Then what the hell do I pay her for?” Donaldson retorted. “She’s supposed to screen my visitors. ELSIE!”

The pretty blonde witch poked her head into Donaldson’s office, looking frightened. “Yes, sir?”

“Get Graves out of here or you can start looking for a new job,” said Donaldson.

“Try applying at MACUSA,” Graves suggested. “We’re always looking for competent administrative staff.”

“If you could just follow me, sir,” said Elsie.

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t,” Graves said. He reached out and fisted one hand in Donaldson’s shirt. Then he Apparated them to the top of the building, some fifteen stories up.

 _“Accio_ recorder,” Graves snapped. One of Donaldson’s jacket buttons tore loose and flew into his waiting palm. He repeated the spell a half dozen times, until he was certain Donaldson had no more recording charms. “I think it’s for the best if we keep this conversation off the record, don’t you?”

“You’re a fool if you think I won’t run this,” Donaldson said. “It’ll be my word against yours, and my word is a matter of public record.”

“I’m Head of MLE,” Graves reminded him. “If I gave a damn about public records – or, for that matter, public opinion – I wouldn’t be very good at my job, now would I?”

“I could _ruin_ you,” Donaldson hissed.

“You can _try,”_ Graves corrected. “You’re a petty, small-minded bigot, Donaldson. You always have been. You can publish whatever garbage you like about me, but you will not drag my fiancé or the child he carries into this. They’re officially off limits.”

Donaldson squinted at him. _“I’m_ the editor of the _New York Ghost,_ not you. _I_ decide what’s off limits and what’s not, and anyone who collaborates with Grindelwald forfeits their right to privacy. As far as I’m concerned, you’re _both_ collaborators.”

Rage made black spots dance in his vision. Graves grabbed Donaldson and shoved him up against the edge of the roof. “I _said_ Credence. Is. Off. Limits.”

Donaldson flailed, which made it hard to keep a grip on him.

“Stop that!” Graves snarled. “Or do you _want_ me to drop you?”

Donaldson didn’t listen.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Graves, and flung Donaldson back onto the roof.

“You tried to kill me!” Donaldson yelled.

“Donaldson, if I’d wanted you dead, you’d be a splat on the ground fifteen stories below right now. You’re more useful to me alive. I want you to leave my fiancé alone, and I want the name of your source.”

“I don’t know who Gallagher’s source is,” Donaldson said. “I’ll have your _job_ for this Graves! No, worse. I’ll have your head on a platter!”

“Credence is off limits,” Graves repeated. _“Say it.”_

Donaldson glared at him.

“The people have the right to know the truth,” he blustered.

“If what you print had any relationship with the truth, I’d agree with you.”

“They have the right to know a dangerous fanatic walks among them!”

“Credence isn’t dangerous, and he’s not a fanatic.”

“So you say. You’re just as suspect as he is.” Donaldson got to his feet and brushed off his clothes. He glared at Graves. “You can’t silence me. The truth always gets out.”

“Again: your idea of the truth and the rest of the world’s are two very different things,” Graves told him.

“You can kill me to keep me quiet, but you’ll only make me a martyr for the truth!”

“Are you even listening to yourself right now? You sound even crazier than Grindelwald.”

“You can try and smear my reputation,” Donaldson continued, warming to his theme. “But the people will know better. They’ll know because I’ll tell them!”

“Donaldson! I’m not trying to kill you! I’m not going to try to kill you! Would you shut the hell up for forty-five fucking seconds and just _listen_ to me?”

Donaldson blinked at him, red-faced from the exertion of yelling. He looked ridiculous: a red-faced, fish-mouthed man with a ridiculous orange combover, yelling about imaginary threats.

“Tell your people to leave Credence alone,” said Graves. “They’re not to smear his name, harass him or his friends in the streets, or make insinuations about his condition.”

Donaldson actually appeared to be considering that. “What do I get in return?”

It was on the tip of Graves’ tongue to say _an unbroken nose_ but he did not want to add fuel to Donaldson’s paranoia. “What do you want?”

“An interview with Barebone.”

“No deal. I don’t make decisions on his behalf. Pick something else.”

“Grindelwald, then.”

Graves stared at him. Donaldson had always been an asshole, but he’d never struck Graves as being particularly suicidal.

“You want to interview _Grindelwald._ Are you crazy?”

“It would be the scoop of the century!” Donaldson said. “No one’s ever gotten close before. My readership would expand worldwide overnight.”

“No one’s ever gotten close because Grindelwald _kills people._ I hate you and everything you stand for, but not even you deserve the death he’d give you. I’m not putting a civilian anywhere _near_ that madman.” There was a reason Aurors hated reporters. Reporters were all nosy, reckless assholes who were a danger to themselves and others.

Donaldson squinted at him some more. “I suppose I can settle for you, if you agree to do a full interview with none of your tricks. No setting time limits and clamming up until time is up, and no walking off when you get pissy.”

The last time Graves had agreed to an interview with the _Ghost_ had been before the war. It hadn’t gone well. “Deal,” said Graves.


	17. Chapter 17

Dinner was a noisy affair, raucous and joyful in ways dinner at the church had never been. Ma never would have permitted this much noise. There were at least five different conversations happening all at once between the eight of them – possibly more. Credence thought Newt and Tina were having two separate conversations _at the same time_ which was a level of complexity he did not feel prepared to deal with. Credence gave up on trying to keep track of all of them after about ten minutes and focused on his own conversation with Percival.

“You did _what?”_

“It’s just an interview,” Percival said reasonably.

Credence knew better than to fall for that particular trick. Percival was many things, but reasonable was not one of them.

“It’s an interview with the _Ghost,”_ Credence corrected. “I’ve not seen much of their work, since you keep setting the paper on fire, but what I _have_ seen makes me think those people wouldn’t know the truth if it walked up and punched them in the nose.”

“I can handle the _Ghost,”_ Percival said.

“Of course you can. You can handle everything,” Credence muttered.

Percival frowned at him. “Are you upset with me?” he asked.

“No,” Credence said automatically. “Well, yes, maybe a little, but we can talk about that later.” It wouldn’t be polite to quarrel in front of their guests, even if their guests felt more like family.

“Credence,” Percival said, reaching out to cover one of Credence’s hands with his own.

“Later,” Credence said firmly.

Percival sighed. “Yes, dear.”

Credence narrowed his eyes and trod very deliberately on Percival’s foot, just hard enough to make his displeasure known.

“You had that coming,” Queenie informed him.

Percival laughed. “I suppose I did,” he agreed. He turned his attention to Newt and said, “You might consider finding lodgings elsewhere, while you’re brother’s in town.”

Newt froze.

Tina and Queenie and Jacob all looked at him with interest. Credence was ashamed to admit that he was staring too. So far, Newt had lived up to Percival’s stories – he didn’t seem to be afraid of _anything._

Everything Percival and Newt said about Theseus Scamander made Credence think that he was a good man. So why had Newt frozen? Was he afraid?

“Theseus is coming to New York?”

“He’s acting as head of security for a delegation from the ICW. They’re due to arrive any day now,” Percival told him.

“Oh, bollocks,” said Newt. He looked at Tina and Queenie and Dorothy apologetically. “Pardon my language.”

“We’ve heard worse,” Tina said with dry amusement.

“Win has that effect on people,” Dorothy added.

Queenie sighed. “And she thinks the same way she talks.”

“What’s the deal with your brother?” Jacob asked. “I thought you two got along okay. You need us to run interference?”

“Not in the way that you’re thinking,” Newt sighed. “But a bit of interference might be nice. Theseus is a _terrible_ mother hen. He used to make his unit swing through where I was stationed during the war just so he could fuss at me.”

“As a member of Theseus’ unit, I can confirm we stopped by where Newt was stationed on as regular a basis as Theseus could manage,” Percival offered. “I’m not sure about the fussing.”

Newt stared at him. “He’d wrestle me to the ground and threaten to force feed me,” he said flatly. “He actually tried to, once. How is that not fussing?”

“It seemed reasonable at the time,” Percival protested. “We were all hungry, and you were skin and bones. He was concerned.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Newt muttered. “You’re just as bad as he is!”

Tina gave him a pitying look. “It took you this long to figure that out?” she asked.

“Well, he’s not directing it at me, now is he?” Newt countered.

“How much alike are you and Theseus?” Credence asked suspiciously.

“Very, I suspect,” Newt said darkly.

“I beg your pardon,” Percival said, affronted. “I am nowhere _near_ as reckless as Theseus is.”

Alex Collins whooped with laughter and turned it into a badly disguised coughing fit when Percival glared at him. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I think something went down the wrong pipe. No idea what came over me.”

“So there’s going to be _two of you,”_ Credence said, dismayed. He had a hard enough time convincing Percival to treat his own life as something that mattered without another version of Percival enabling all of _his_ Percival’s bad habits.

“Not precisely,” Percival said, tracing his thumb over the back of Credence’s knuckles. “I’m much better looking.”

Newt squawked indignantly.

“Is your brother very handsome?” Tina asked innocently. The teasing gleam in her eyes made her sparkle the way that Queenie did, dark where Queenie was fair.

Percival pointed at her. “No,” he said sternly.

Newt and Tina blinked at him.

“No what, sir?” Tina asked.

“No,” Percival said again, with great conviction. “You are not allowed anywhere near that mad bastard. He’ll corrupt you.”

Credence stared at Tina and Newt. He couldn’t tell which one of the two of them was more indignant.

“My brother is not some _degenerate –”_ protested Newt.

“Sir, I am a grown woman –” Tina began.

 _“No,”_ Percival said over both of them.

Tina shut her mouth, glaring at Percival. “I’m going to assume that impending fatherhood has made you a fatheaded moron,” she said icily. “But in case you’ve forgotten, _sir,_ you are _not_ my father, and being my superior officer does not give you the right to dictate who I socialize with.”

Percival beamed at her. “You really are going to be magnificent,” he said admiringly.

Tina’s expression shifted into startled confusion. “Sir?”

“I’ve no desire to dictate whom you socialize with, Goldstein,” Percival said mildly. “Nor do I think Theseus is a degenerate, or whatever else you were about to say, Newt. My objection is purely professional. Theseus is a damn fine Auror, and we’re lucky to have him heading up security, since he’s one of the few wizards I’d trust to hold his own against Grindelwald.”

Newt looked mollified by the praise. “My brother’s very good at what he does.”

“He is,” Percival agreed. “He’s one of the best. He’s also reckless and prone to taking risks that no one else would survive because he’s good enough to survive them. He’s a _terrible_ influence, and I’d much rather Tina learned to take risks based on her own abilities rather than his.”

Tina did not look mollified. “So it’s my judgment you don’t trust,” she said. “I can’t say that’s much of an improvement on being treated like a child.”

“Goldstein, believe me when I say that right now you’re one of the only people whose judgment I trust,” Percival said. He rubbed his thumb over Credence’s knuckles again. “You were the one who saw how much of a problem the Second Salemers could be, and _you_ were the one who tried to help when no one else – myself included – dared to defy the law. You and Newt were the ones who tried to help Modesty, and it was your actions that led to Grindelwald’s arrest. You’re going to be a magnificent Auror some day, and I consider it an honor and a privilege to teach you.”

Tina got steadily redder, but she held Percival’s gaze. She looked equal parts embarrassed and pleased. Queenie beamed at her, obviously delighted on Tina’s behalf. The look Newt gave her was warm and fond and maybe a little private; Credence wondered if they were courting too.

“You should trust my judgment with Theseus Scamander, then,” Tina said, refusing to be swayed from her initial objection.

“I should,” Percival allowed. “But I’ve actually _met_ Theseus Scamander.”

“He can’t possibly be as bad as you’re making him sound,” Tina said.

“Er,” said Newt.

“Is he?” Tina asked.

“Not exactly,” Newt hedged. “You have to understand – my brother is the best man I know, not to mention the bravest. Theseus is quite extraordinary, really. But he’s … Well. He’s a bit hard to keep up with.” He slanted a thoughtful look at Percival. “As far as I know, there are only three people who can match Theseus in the field: Octavian Longbottom, Ava Boot and Percival Graves.”

Percival sipped his drink. “You give me too much credit.”

“I’m only following my brother’s example,” Newt said.

“I’ve heard of Ava Boot,” Tina said. “Is she as good as the stories say she is?”

Newt shrugged. “I’ve never met her. Theseus speaks very highly of her, though.”

Tina made a face. “I still don’t see any reason I shouldn’t be allowed to work with your brother, outside of the Director being missish.”

“Missish,” Percival repeated, indignant.

“Professionally speaking, you haven’t a leg to stand on and you know it,” Tina said tartly. “Sir,” she added, with belated guilt.

Alex Collins muffled another whoop of laughter. “She’s got a point, sir.”

Percival made a disgruntled noise. “I was going to invite the pair of you to stay with us,” he told Newt. “But now I think I’ll leave Goldstein to your brother’s mercy.”

“Merlin’s beard,” said Newt.

“Oh my,” Queenie said, blinking with startled bemusement. Then she started giggling.

Credence recognized that giggle. It was a very distinctive feminine sound, bright and clear as bells and entirely at a sister’s expense. Chastity hadn’t laughed liked that often, but Modesty had.

Tina clearly recognized it as well, because she looked wary for the first time all evening. “Queenie?”

“Theseus takes his duties as Head of House Scamander seriously,” Percival said, when it became clear that neither Newt nor Queenie were going to explain. “He’s concerned about the line of succession.”

Credence could _see_ the moment Tina figured out what Percival meant by that.

“Oh,” Tina blurted. “We’re not –”

“No, of course,” Newt said hastily. “My brother will just make assumptions.”

“We’re not doing anything _improper,”_ Tina added.

“Well,” Credence said, into the embarrassed silence that followed. “By No-Maj standards, it’s a _little_ improper for an unmarried gentleman to stay with an unmarried lady. Do wizards have different rules?”

“Not _that_ different,” murmured Dorothy, who was looking at Tina and Newt with interest.

So were Queenie and Jacob, which Credence thought was interesting. Newt and Tina probably weren’t courting yet, but Queenie and Jacob clearly wanted them to be.

“Sir,” Alex said reproachfully. “I think this qualifies as being mean to the rookie.”

“It really does,” Tina said instantly. She smiled blandly at Percival. “I’m going to remember this, sir.”

“Try to hold off on vengeance until after Grindelwald has been taken care of,” Percival advised her.

Tina’s smile got a little sharper, the way Percival’s did when he was feeling predatory. “Yes, sir.”

 

*

 

Graves was glad to retire to the bedroom he shared with Credence after dinner. Their bedroom was a private space meant for two, sacred and inviolate. No one but the two of them dared to trespass in the territory they’d claimed, which was exactly the way things ought to be as far as Graves was concerned. No one had dared disturb his parents bedroom at the Manor house either.

The safe house at 111 Park was a different story. Under Credence’s influence, it would be a safe haven for all manner of people: the extended family Credence had unconsciously built.

Graves didn’t begrudge him that. Credence really did have the most extraordinary heart Graves had ever encountered. If opening their home to others made Credence happy, who was he to naysay that?

Credence pushed Graves up against their bedroom wall and sank to his knees, his gorgeous long-fingered hands releasing Graves’ belt and unbuttoning his trousers.

“Credence?” Graves asked, just to be sure.

Credence rested his head against Graves’ thigh and breathed in, his expression shifting towards content, as though Graves’ scent had satisfied something primal in him.

A stronger man – a _better_ man – could have ignored the way Credence looked on his knees, his pretty mouth open and waiting to be used. Graves found himself only just strong enough to hold still when Credence put his mouth on Graves’ cock, careful and tasting.

“Fuck,” Graves breathed, one hand tangling loosely in Credence’s curls. “You’re going to be the death of me, gorgeous.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” Credence said, pressing a kiss to the base of Graves’ cock. “Not while I still need you.” His touch was unpracticed – innocent, really – but Graves found he didn’t mind. The inconsistent suction and occasional faint scrape of teeth were nothing compared to Credence’s sincerity: his need. Graves found it intoxicating. He trembled faintly against his own restraint, determined not to thrust his hips and choke Credence by accident.

“My Percival,” Credence purred. The scrape of teeth was deliberate this time, a faint hint of pain that made the pleasure sweeter.

“Fuck,” Graves said again. He tugged gently on Credence’s hair in warning. He got a smug, feline look of amusement in return, and that was enough to tip Graves over the edge into orgasm.

“Right,” Graves said, trying to catch his breath. “Give me a minute and I’ll return the favor.”

“No need,” said Credence, going boneless and limp. There was a damp patch in his trousers that made Graves’ cock twitch with sated longing.

 _“Fuck,”_ Graves swore, maneuvering Credence into bed and stripping him out of his clothes.

There was a ring of bruises around Credence’s left arm.

“Who hurt you?” Graves demanded.

Credence blinked at him in confusion. “No one,” he said. He looked down at his arm. “Oh. That,” he said dismissively.

“Yes. _That,”_ Graves said, not feeling dismissive at all. Someone had laid hands on Credence; someone had _hurt_ him. Graves would make whoever had dared regret it.

“It’s nothing,” Credence said.

“Nothing,” Graves repeated, practically choking on his desire to rend someone limb from limb. “Someone _hurt_ you.”

Credence actually _laughed_ at that. “It’s nothing,” he said, pressing a kiss to Graves’ cheek. “It doesn’t even hurt.” He gave Graves a fond look, like he thought Graves was being ridiculous but sweet. Graves had seen more than few of his Aurors get that look over the years; he suspected he was too angry to be wearing the disgruntled look his Aurors invariably got in return.

He took a deep breath to keep from snarling at Credence, who had done nothing to deserve it.

Credence reached out and pulled Graves into bed with him. Graves landed in an awkward sprawl, half-crouching over Credence to keep from crushing him.

Having Credence sprawled out beneath him soothed some of Graves’ primitive hindbrain. Anything or anyone that wanted to hurt Credence would have to go through him first.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” Graves said carefully.

“I’m not,” Credence said soothingly. “I _know_ hurt, Percival. Trust me, this barely qualifies. It would’ve been a love tap, by Ma’s standards.”

Graves did snarl at that. He remembered what Credence’s back had looked like, both of the times Grindelwald had returned him to their cell. He hated the reminder of Mary Lou Barebone’s cruelty; the thought of Credence – of any child – in that woman’s care made him want to raze cities to the ground.

He would have, for Credence.

“That may be true,” Graves conceded. “But I love you, and I hate to see you hurt.”

Credence snorted. “I could say the same to you.”

“What?” Graves asked, briefly distracted.

Credence shoved him lightly, sitting up in bed. “You made a deal with the _Ghost,”_ he said.

“To keep them away from you and Dorothy and anyone else you might be seen in public with,” Graves reminded him. “It’s worth it. _You’re_ worth it.”

“So are you,” Credence said, a stubborn set to his jaw. “The _Ghost_ has spent weeks crucifying you in print. How well do you think your interview is going to go?”

“Badly,” Graves predicted.

“But you agreed to it anyway,” Credence said. “For me.”

“I told you,” Graves said. “You’re worth it.”

“So are you,” Credence said.

Graves blinked at him.

Credence pressed Graves onto his back and straddled his lap. “My whole life, I had nothing. I had no one, not in any way that really mattered. Everything I had – everything I was – belonged to Ma, and Ma hated me.” He bent down to nip at Graves’ lower lip, layering kisses over it to soothe the sting. “And now I have you,” he said, with one of his shy, sweet smiles. “And him. I have a family and a future and _love,_ and none of it means anything without you. I’m not like you; I’m not strong. I don’t know how to do this without you, Percival. I _can’t._ And I am terrified that someday I’ll have to, because you always put yourself in the line of fire.”

“I do not,” Graves protested.

“You do,” Credence said, something awful and resigned in his voice. “It’s what you do. I wish you wouldn’t. You act like you’re some kind of – I don’t know. Like everything’s just fine, as long as you’re the only one who gets hurt. Like you don’t _matter._

“You matter,” he said, pressing the words against Graves’ lips. “You matter more than anyone in the whole world. I love you, and I hate to see you hurt.”

Oh.

Shit.

“I may … be a little bit of a hypocrite,” Graves said. “And a terrible Auror.” He should have seen Credence’s point on his own. Credence shouldn’t have had to spell it out for him. Of course he hated to see Graves hurt. No one wanted to see their loved ones get hurt, and Credence had already seen him hurt far too often in the short time they’d known one another. No wonder he was a bit sensitive to it.

“A little bit?” Credence asked, very dryly.

Graves snorted. “Maybe a lot,” he conceded. He sighed. “I have been the Graves in MACUSA for more than half my life, Credence. I grew up knowing that it was my duty to stand as a shield between my people and anything or anyone who means them harm.” And maybe he’d internalized that lesson a little too well; he’d thrown himself into his work after his father died, because work was a safer alternative than grief. He’d made himself Seraphina’s shield – his people’s shield – in deeds as well as words, and somewhere along the way he’d forgotten that he was more than that: that he was a person, too. “I want better than that for you. For _him.”_ If his son ever thought of his own life as cavalierly as Graves treated his own, Graves would break down and weep like a child for his failures. “I can’t promise to change overnight, but I’m going to try, alright?”

“Good,” Credence said fiercely. He kissed Graves, all possessive heat and desire. “I love you, Percival Graves. You’re mine and I’m yours, and I will always love you.”

“I love you too, Credence. My breath, my heart and my magic are yours, from this day until my last,” Graves said, raising Credence’s left hand to his mouth and kissing it. He was paraphrasing part of the traditional wizarding marriage vows; he wanted to see what Credence’s gorgeous long-fingered hand would look like wearing his ring.

He wanted a ring of his own.

Clearly he was overdue for an appointment at Revere’s.

“My Percival,” Credence said.

“Always,” Graves promised. “Now let me up, darling. I’m wearing far too many clothes.”

A blush stole across Credence’s cheeks. “I should put on some pajamas,” he said, scrambling off of Graves.

“Not on my account,” Graves told him.

“Percival!”

 

*

 

There were a dozen red roses in a crystal vase sitting outside of Graves’ office the next morning. Graves frowned at them – he’d been an Auror too long to trust any mysteriously appearing package, even if it was something as innocuous as roses. He froze as the scent of them hit him. They smelled like roses and blood, the bitter metallic scent harsh beneath the floral perfume.

The red spots on the floor he’d assumed were fallen petals were drops of blood. The roses were bleeding.

The Love Lies Bleeding curse was a familiar one for most Aurors. It was generally used by spurned lovers and stalkers: a melodramatic way of physically manifesting an emotional hurt. It was also stupid. Nine times out of ten whoever cast it used their own blood to power the spell, which at least made the stalkers easy to catch. Nothing said _look how much you’ve hurt me_ like actual bleeding.

“What the _fuck,”_ Graves said. He’d not had a lover in much longer than he cared to admit to, before Credence. He hadn’t spurned anyone, and the only person he’d hurt recently was Grindelwald, who was certainly melodramatic enough for such a gesture but unlikely to have done so from behind bars and without his wand.

Maybe one of Grindelwald’s followers had sent them on Grindelwald’s behalf?

Graves cast stasis charms over the mess, transfiguring a sheet of paper into a glass vial to hold the blood. He caught one of the junior Aurors and handed him the roses, mentally searching for the boy’s name.

He’d known all his Aurors names, before Grindelwald.

“Baylor. Can you run these down to the lab? Have one of the spell specialists trace the blood.”

“Yessir,” the boy said, wide-eyed and a bit awed.

Graves waited until the boy was out of sight to sigh. The junior Aurors made him feel old. It was strange to think the Credence and Baylor were around the same age; Credence seemed so much more mature. He’d had to be, given his previous life experiences.

He set the mystery of the bloody roses aside for now. Theseus and the ICW delegation would be arriving in the next week or so. He had work to do.

 

*

 

Credence’s heart felt overfull, spilling over with love and Percival. He felt like singing, except all the songs he knew were hymns and not especially joyful. He hummed quietly to himself instead, making up the melody as he went along.

He’d talked to Percival and Percival had _listened._ Credence had not doubted that Percival would, because Percival always listened to him, even when Credence didn’t have anything interesting to say. But he hadn’t been at all sure of his own ability to find the _right_ words, or that he would be able to convince Percival that he was serious.

Percival had listened, though. He’d listened, and he’d promised to do better.

Credence had not known that the surety of being loved was a kind of magic all on its own. He knew Percival loved him; knowing that made him feel like he could do anything.

Right now, what he needed to do was clean. And maybe read a little more of Tina’s books on Rappaport’s Law, but mostly clean.

The safe house at 111 Park had more rooms than Credence had ever seen before. He wondered how two people could possibly use so much _space._

Well. Credence knew what he intended to do with it, running a brief caress over his belly. He wanted to fill the house with children.

With love.

For now, though, the extra rooms could be used for their guests. He made a mental list of things Newt and Jacob would need. He wanted Newt and Jacob to feel comfortable and safe.

A knock on the front door drew him out of his thoughts. Credence frowned, because Newt and Jacob weren’t supposed to move in until tomorrow, and Dorothy was busy with her women’s group today. Seraphina and Queenie and Tina were all at work with Percival.

Credence rubbed his thumb across the face of his shield charm. He was safe. Percival had seen to that.

He peeked out the little side window, suspicious, and then scrambled to fling the front door open.

“Dindrane!”

Dindrane swept him up in a hug, then held him at arm’s length. “Look at you!” she said. “You’re glowing. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Credence said immediately. “How are you?” There was a boy Modesty’s age practically vibrating with excitement just behind Dindrane. “Hello,” Credence said. “You must be Lance. I’m very glad to meet you.”

“Hi!” Lance said, brown eyes shining. He crashed into Credence, flinging his thin arms around Credence’s midsection. “Hi, baby,” he said. “I’m very glad to meet you, too!”

“Gently, _mijo,”_ Dindrane said, trying to pry Lance off of Credence. “We talked about this. You were supposed to ask Uncle Credence if you could hug him, not leap at him like a wild monkey.”

“Sorry, Uncle Credence,” Lance muttered, not looking particularly sorry or subdued by his mother’s disapproval.

He wasn’t afraid, either. It took Credence a moment to realize that Lance wasn’t supposed to be.

Not all mothers were like Ma.

“I don’t mind,” Credence said, just in case Lance was in trouble after all. He hugged Lance back as best he could.

“I’m going to be the best cousin ever,” Lance told the baby. _“Way_ better than Arthur or Gwen. We’ll go on adventures, like real, proper knights. Only you’ll be really little, so you’ll have to start out as my squire, and I’ll teach you everything you need to know. And then once you’re big enough, you can be a knight too.”

Credence laughed. “He’ll be lucky to have you,” he told Lance. “I’m sure he’ll look up to you.”

Lance beamed at him. He let go of Credence and dashed back to Dindrane’s side. “Can I have my book?”

Dindrane raised her eyebrows at him in a way that reminded Credence strongly of Percival. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Lance made a face. “May I please have my book, Mamá? I want to read it to the baby.”

Dindrane smoothed her hand over his dark hair. “Yes, you may,” she said, fishing a book out of one of the parcels sitting on the front porch behind them.

“Oh, God, where are my manners? Please, come in,” Credence said. “Let me help you with those.”

“You asked about a crib,” Dindrane said, hefting one of her parcels. “I thought Percival might be a bit too busy at work to take you to the Manor, so I fetched a few things for you. And I thought you might appreciate a hand dealing with my brother, after that nonsense in the _Ghost._ Has he broken Donaldson’s nose again yet?”

“He hasn’t mentioned it, if he has,” Credence said. He wondered if Percival had. Percival was remarkably upfront about his past youthful indiscretions, but Credence would not put it past Percival to think he needed to shelter Credence from acts of violence.

“He would,” Dindrane told him, answering his unasked question. “Percival hasn’t punched Donaldson since Seraphina took office and forbade him from brawling with the press. He’s wanted to knock Donaldson’s teeth down his throat for _years._ If he’d actually punched Donaldson, he’d be obnoxiously pleased with himself right now.”

“I still don’t see why Uncle Percival is allowed to hit people and I’m not,” Lance complained.

“Uncle Percival is allowed to hit people because he’s an Auror,” Dindrane said firmly. “He only hits bad men who threaten the safety of our people. He knows better than to brawl with his big sister.”

Lance thought about that. “But you’re Uncle Percival’s big sister, aren’t you, Mamá? Uncle Percival would never hit _you._ You’re not bad.”

“You shouldn’t hit Gwen, either,” said Dindrane.

“What if Gwen hits me first?”

“Gwen shouldn’t be hitting you, either. She’s bigger than you.”

“I know,” Lance said, long-suffering. “Papá says I’ll be bigger than her someday.”

“Someday you will,” Dindrane promised. “And someday you’ll both be big enough to remember not to hit each other.” She turned to Credence and smiled. “I’d tell you children aren’t always this much of a handful, but I’d be lying.”

“I know,” Credence said, amused. The orphans rarely squabbled inside the church – Ma made it clear that she wouldn’t tolerate such misbehaviors – but outside of it all bets were off. Credence had spent plenty of time mediating childish squabbles.

“Oh, Good,” said Dindrane. “I was worried I might scare you. I should have known you’d be tougher than that.”

Credence still wasn’t sure what to say when people complimented him. _Thank you_ was probably polite, but it also seemed inadequate.

“Would you like to see the room I’ve picked out for a nursery?” he asked instead. “I’ve been doing a little bit of redecorating, but I haven’t gotten very far.”

“Of course,” Dindrane said warmly.

Lance looked the nursery over with approval. “Can I go explore?” he asked.

“You may,” Dindrane said. “Are there any rooms you’d like him to stay out of?”

“No,” Credence said. “Have fun, Lance.”

“Thanks!” Lance said, and took off.

The crib was an heirloom, just like Newt thought it would be. It had been carved from warm, golden-colored oak. Each of the four corner posts had a different magical creature standing guard over the crib’s occupant, and a word in Latin engraved down the side of the post below them.

“The four Houses at Ilvermorny,” Dindrane explained. She touched the Horned Serpent fondly.

“What about the Latin?” Credence asked. The word _integritas_ was engraved beneath the Horned Serpent.

“Our family has a long history of service in MACUSA. MACUSA’s headquarters have always had statues to remind everyone of the principles MACUSA was founded on. _Integritas, Unitas, Virtus, Magia._ Integrity, Unity, Valor, Magic. My great-great grandfather was the one to carve those principles into the crib, hoping for a strong heir.”

 _Unitas_ was engraved beneath the Pukwudgie, which fit everything about human Pukwudgies Credence was learning from Queenie and Dorothy. The wampus cat had _virtus,_ which fit Percival nicely as well.

The thunderbird had _magia_ engraved beneath it, which didn’t make quite as much sense as the other three. Tina and Alex Collins were the only Thunderbirds he knew. They were amazing, but they did not seem to exude magic the way that Percival and Seraphina did.

Thunderbirds were adventurers, though. Magic was surely one of the greatest adventures there was, so maybe it did make sense after all.

“How are you holding up?” Dindrane asked.

Credence blinked at her, surprised to be asked. “I’m fine,” he said.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she said gently. “No one will think less of you for it. It’s not easy, being in the public eye. Percival’s used to it, but I know it’s new to you.”

Credence thought back to handing out flyers while Ma preached in front of mostly disinterested crowds. It wasn’t _quite_ the same thing as being in the public eye. It was more like being a public spectacle, he thought. It was safe to think that now. He’d never dared to, before.

“I’m not happy about it,” he said, choosing his words with care. “But I’m okay. Really, I am,” he added, when Dindrane looked unsure. “I would have preferred to have my debut into the wizarding world and the newspapers happen on my terms, but I can’t change what’s already happened. I can change how I deal with it going forward, though. Some friends of mine are going to put me in touch with a reporter from _Moment_ magazine. They said that she’d be fair.”

Credence _liked_ having friends. He liked having the support network Percival had wanted him to build, back in their cell. He liked knowing that there were people out there who had his back, for no other reason than because they liked him.

It was Dindrane’s turn to blink this time.

“It seemed like a good idea,” Credence ventured, when Dindrane still didn’t say anything.

“It’s an amazing idea,” Dindrane said. “It’ll make Donaldson and that hag at the _Ghost_ spit nails. I’m just … well, I’m a bit surprised. You’re, what, in your twenties?”

“Twenty-two,” Credence said. He was fairly certain that was how old he was. He’d been very small when Ma took him from the orphanage, and it wasn’t like the orphanage kept track of things like birthdays.

“Twenty-two,” Dindrane repeated. “You’re quite politically savvy, for someone your age. To say nothing of mature. I _really_ hope my brother knows just what a gem he has in you.”

“He does,” Credence assured her, all of his earlier gladness coming back.

“If that ever changes, you let me know and I promise I’ll straighten him out.”

“Shouldn’t you be on Percival’s side?” Credence asked her, amused by the thought.

“I’ve been on Percival’s side for thirty-nine years now. I can be on yours for a little bit too. You should have people on your side.”

“Thank you,” Credence said. Impulsively, he reached out and hugged her. She was so much like Percival. They had the same hearts, as big and as deep as the sea; the same capacity for love.

Dindrane hugged him back.

“What did Percival say about your plan?” Dindrane asked.

Credence made a face. “I haven’t had a chance to mention it to him. He decided to bargain with the _Ghost.”_

Dindrane muttered something in Spanish that Credence was fairly certain was a swear word.

“The _Ghost_ won’t try accosting me in the streets like yesterday, or bother my friends, and in exchange, Percival’s agreed to an interview.”

Dindrane’s expression suggested she was having some difficulty deciding what she wanted to be angrier about. Finally, she said, “Accosted?” Her voice was frozen and cold, practically a serpent’s hiss.

Credence explained about the two reporters outside of the pigeon post office. He left out the ring of bruises the man with the camera had left around his arm; he didn’t think Dindrane was going to be any more reasonable about them than Percival was.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if Newt and Queenie and Jacob hadn’t shown up,” Credence concluded. “Set a lot of things on fire, probably.” He wouldn’t have regretted it, either. They had frightened Dorothy, and _no one_ got to frighten one of Credence’s people. Not anymore. He had magic now, and he wasn’t going to stand idly by out of fear ever again.

Dindrane’s angry expression smoothed away. “Percival Graves, you’re an _ass,”_ she said.

Credence frowned at her. “Percival hasn’t done anything wrong, aside from agreeing to the interview. I talked to him about that, though.”

“He should have taught you how to defend yourself!” Dindrane protested. “You’re a Graves. You shouldn’t have to defend yourself with a _warming charm,_ for magic’s sake.”

“It worked,” Credence said mildly. “And it’s not like I have a wand.”

Dindrane growled another curse under her breath. This one didn’t sound like Spanish. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s go into the garden,” she said. “I’ll show you how a Graves defends his own.”

Credence liked the thought of that: of being able to protect his people - to protect _Percival_ and their son - as capably and ferociously as Percival did.

 _Graves_ was another word for _safety_ as far as the rest of MACUSA was concerned. Credence wanted to live up to that.

“I’d like that,” he said.

 

*

 

Graves snuck out for a hot dog in between security briefings. If he had to spend the next two hours drafting security protocols for when the ICW delegation arrived, he wanted something trashy and delicious to fortify himself with. He ate his hot dog on his way back to the Woolworth Building and then, reflecting on exactly _how much_ paperwork was waiting for him, went back and got another one.

A faint whiff of ozone and tea alerted him to Atherton’s presence behind him as he paid the vendor.

Graves readied a stunning spell, just in case. Doris Atherton had been head of the crime lab since he was a junior Auror. She was a tiny, birdlike woman with short, peach fuzz white hair - anything longer was a fire hazard, given how frequently her experiments exploded. The faint ozone odor of exploded potions lingered on anyone who spent much time in her personal domain, but Atherton was the only one who also smelled of strong black tea. People who didn’t know her assumed she was a harmless eccentric, or someone’s helpless old granny. Graves knew better. Atherton ran the labs with the sort of iron-fisted tyranny that would have made Grindelwald sit down and take notes.

Atherton also preferred not to leave the labs. She had minions for that.

“Percival,” she said.

“Doris,” he replied.

“Walk with me,” she said, and started walking without waiting for him to respond.

Graves followed, bemused. He kept the stunning spell ready, though. He wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that Atherton wasn’t one of Grindelwald’s followers. Leaving the labs and meeting him outside of the Woolworth Building was not exactly normal behavior for her.

“Normally,” Atherton said, “I would send you a memo detailing exactly what I think of idiots who don’t process evidence correctly. I have a form letter for it.”

“I know,” Graves said. He’d never gotten one himself, but every so often his Aurors or one of the other department heads would lobby to have them banned on the grounds that they were demoralizing. Since there were very rarely repeat offenders after receiving one of Atherton’s memos, Graves was inclined to let her keep them. They were a valuable teaching tool, if nothing else. “Did you find out whose blood it was?”

“No,” Atherton said sarcastically. “I left the labs and tracked you down to talk about it off the record because I was embarrassed by my failures. _Of course_ I found out whose blood it was.”

“I’m starting to think I should schedule you for one of HR’s conflict seminars,” Graves said mildly, letting the threat dangle.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re a scientist. Care to test that theory?”

Atherton narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s yours.”

“What?”

“The blood fueling the Love Lies Bleeding curse. It’s yours.”

Graves hadn’t sent the roses. It was possible one of Grindelwald’s followers had, but Grindelwald had favored transfigurations over Polyjuice, towards the end. And Polyjuice only changed one’s physical appearance, not their blood. Which meant that whoever had his wasn’t one of Grindelwald’s fanatics, and likely wasn’t a MACUSA employee either, since he hadn’t bled on a crime scene since Grindelwald had ambushed him.

“Son of a bitch,” said Graves.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter include threats of abortion (not from Credence or Graves). Message me on tumblr if you think you might need additional warnings.
> 
> Many thanks to the fantastic [dailandin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin) for letting me borrow one of her characters. George Carsington is actually George Picquery, who looks like Idris Elba and cries at weddings. If you have not read [the road to power is paved with hypocrisy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9491723) yet you really should, because it is delightful. (I hope I kept him in character.)

“This is the first spell a Graves is taught, once we’re old enough to fight,” Dindrane said. “Lance?”

Lance bounced to his feet and grinned. “I’m a bad guy!” he announced. “Grrr!”

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” Credence asked anxiously. Dindrane did not seem like the sort of person who would hurt a child, much less her own, but the talk of fighting made him nervous.

Lance laughed. “Don’t be silly, Uncle Credence. Mamá would never hurt me.”

“It’s not actually a combat spell,” Dindrane said. “It’s a restraining one. Generally speaking, unless you’re confident of your ability to win, you should run or Apparate away instead of fighting. But if you can’t avoid a fight, then you should have a way to deal with your opponent afterwards. Making sure they can’t hurt you is a good start. That means binding their hands. Most people can’t cast without using their wands, which means having their hands free to complete the proper wand movements.”

“Oh,” said Credence. That made sense. He was getting used to magic without a wand, though.

 _“Incarcerus,”_ Dindrane said.

Leather strips appeared around Lance’s wrists, gently pulling his arms behind his back. The strips became a complicated series of buckles that went halfway up his forearms. He definitely couldn’t use a wand now.

“Did you see?” Lance asked, hopping towards Credence. Credence wasn’t entirely sure why; Dindrane hadn’t bound his legs. Lance spun around, making sure that Credence could see his bound hands.

 _“Finite incantatem,”_ Dindrane said, and the straps disappeared. She showed him how to form the proper wand movements, then handed him her wand. “Give it a try.”

Credence gave her wand an experimental flick. It wasn’t as easy to use as Percival’s, but the _lumos_ he cast was perfectly serviceable. Dindrane's wand was a pretty golden brown color, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“I don’t feel right about this,” he said, keeping Dindrane’s wand pointed at the ground. “This feels like the magical version of raising my hand to a woman.”

Dindrane raised an eyebrow at him. “Women are just as capable of harm as men,” she reminded him. “Moreso, sometimes.”

“I know that,” Credence said. He really, really did. “It still feels wrong.”

“Ah. Social conditioning,” Dindrane said. At Credence’s frown, she said, “Men are taught that it’s ungentlemanly to hurt women, rather than to not hurt anyone at all.”

“It’s unchivalrous.”

She smiled. “Percival’s been telling you our mother’s stories, hasn’t he?”

“I like them,” Credence said.

“Me too!” Lance said. “I’m going to tell them to the baby.”

“He’ll like that,” Credence said.

Dindrane smiled at both of them. “I promise you, as chivalrous as Percival is, he has zero problems dueling with women. Or punching one in the face, if the situation calls for it.”

Credence stared at her, appalled. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would. Ask Seraphina about the last time they dueled. They were both about sixteen.”

That made a bit more sense. Credence couldn’t imagine Percival punching Seraphina _now;_ not when he’d made himself her shield.

He wondered what Percival was like at sixteen.

He wondered if there were pictures.

“Percival is not exactly the best person to hold up as an example,” he said dryly. “I love him, but he’s …”

“Lucky he’s good looking?” Dindrane suggested.

“Dindrane!” he protested, but he was laughing. Percival could be remarkably ridiculous sometimes.

“Give the spell a try,” Dindrane said.

His first couple of attempts fizzled out and did nothing.

“You have to mean it,” Dindrane advised, adjusting his grip on her wand. “Think about those men from yesterday. What would you have done if they’d hurt Dorothy?”

Credence narrowed his eyes. He would have done something awful, if they’d done that.

 _“Incarcerus!”_ he snapped.

Dindrane shifted, adjusting her weight as her hands went behind her back. The same complicated set of straps and buckles bloomed up her arms. “Well done!” she said. “Can you do it again?”

 _“Finite incantatem,”_ Credence said, releasing her arms. “I think so. _Incarcerus.”_

“Brilliant.”

_“Finite incantatem.”_

“Alright,” Dindrane said. “We’ll make a proper Auror out of you yet.”

“I’d rather be a proper Graves,” Credence said.

“You already are,” she told him. “But I brought you those books on etiquette you wanted.”

“Thank you!” 

“Ready for the next spell?” asked Dindrane.

Credence gave her wand back. “Yes.”

 

*

 

George Carsington had been in Pukwudgie three years above Graves and Seraphina at Ilvermorny. He’d been a gorgeous, gregarious boy and had grown into a gorgeous, gregarious man, undaunted by years as a Healer and then as the chief administrator of St. Brigid’s Hospital. Graves and Seraphina had spent equal amounts of time sighing over his broad shoulders and the tantalizing contrast of his dark skin and blindingly white smile as spotty adolescents. George wasn’t the entire reason teenaged Graves had realized he was interested in boys as well as girls, but he’d certainly confirmed a few things.

George had never looked at either of them when they were young – he’d been more focused on studying to be a Healer – but he and Seraphina had an arrangement that involved “scorchingly hot sex and mind-blowing orgasms,” according to Seraphina. Graves tried not to think about it, because if he did, then he got the urge to sit George down for a chat and ask him what his intentions were and that was definitely not going to end well for him. He’d made the mistake of interfering with Seraphina’s romantic prospects exactly once, and the resulting screaming match had convinced him to leave well enough alone unless Seraphina requested otherwise.

Also, George was _still_ taller and broader than he was, and for a Pukwudgie he was a gratifyingly terrifying person to have on your side in a bar fight.

George steepled his fingers and looked at Graves with solemn dark eyes. “That’s a serious allegation,” he said.

“I know,” Graves said. “That’s why I approached you first.”

George sighed. “Are you sure it wasn’t someone on your end?”

Graves shook his head. “I thought it might be, when it was just a leak. But none of my people had access to my blood. It had to be someone from St. Brigid’s, and Wilkinson’s the only one with means and motive.”

Perseverance Wilkinson had always been a bit of a brat, as far as Graves could recall. He was descended from one of the Twelve, just as Graves was, and he’d always struck Graves as being a bit over impressed with his own specialness. Graves had hoped he’d grow out of it, but after Wilkinson made the mother of all awkward passes at him, Graves had little interest in sticking around to see if that ever happened.

He still wasn’t sure how Wilkinson had gotten into his hotel room, but finding an aroused, naked junior Healer in his bed after a long day of meetings and networking had not been a pleasant surprise.

“He’s never been a fan of yours,” George conceded reluctantly. “I’ll call him in.”

Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed to slits as soon as he caught sight of Graves in George’s office.

“Take a seat, please, Percy,” George said kindly.

Wilkinson did. He didn’t look particularly happy to be sitting next to Graves, though.

“Director Graves has leveled a serious accusation against you,” George explained. “He believes that you’ve been leaking information about his case and his fiancé to the press, and that you recently escalated the situation by sending him roses under the Love Lies Bleeding curse powered with his own blood.”

Wilkinson said nothing.

“I find it hard to believe that any Healer would leak information about a patient to the press,” George said, offering Wilkinson a chance to deny it.

Wilkinson still said nothing.

“Percy,” George said, quiet and grave.

Wilkinson slanted a look at Graves.

“You’re not working for Grindelwald, at least,” Graves said. “Your dislike of me is personal.”

 _“Dislike,”_ Wilkinson scoffed. “That’s a bit of an understatement, Graves.”

“Hatred, then,” Graves amended, humoring Wilkinson. Wilkinson still had his wand, and there was George to think about if Wilkinson lashed out.

“Yes,” Wilkinson agreed. “I hate you. Merlin’s balls, it feels good to say that to your face. I _hate_ you. You and your family – you run roughshod over the rest of us as though your sacrifices mean more than ours; as if you’re _better_ than us when you’re not.”

Graves stared at him and valiantly did not ask the one question he really wanted to, which was _are you fucking kidding me?_

“Fuck. You have no idea how insufferable the rest of us find you, do you?” Wilkinson demanded. He smiled, nasty and cold. “You’re not well-liked among the other eleven families, Graves.”

“I don’t need to be liked,” Graves said. “I need to do my job. I protect people, just like Gondulphus Graves did. You seem to have forgotten that. I wonder what Charity Wilkinson would think of you?”

“I _help_ people!” snarled Wilkinson, flushed with rage. “I _heal_ them. I’m not like you. I don’t _hurt_ people.”

Graves raised his eyebrows. “And how did I hurt you?” he asked. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? I hurt you, and you hate me for it – enough to throw your career away by leaking things to the _Ghost._ You’re Adrienne Gallagher’s contact.”

“Yes,” Wilkinson snarled, vicious. “You know what you did.”

“Tell me anyway,” Graves invited. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Don’t tell me what I want!” yelled Wilkinson. He took a deep breath and added, “I loved you, once.”

You loved the idea of me, Graves thought. He said nothing.

“I _loved_ you, and you _rejected me!”_

“You were nineteen,” Graves said. “Practically still a child. I was thirty-three; I couldn’t have touched you even if I’d wanted to.”

“That didn’t stop you with _Credence,”_ Wilkinson spat. “How old is he, anyway? How does it feel to rob the cradle?”

“Oh, fucking hell,” said Graves, abruptly slotting the pieces together. Credence’s suspicious absence from the leaks until Wilkinson had seen them at St. Brigid’s for Credence’s check-up. “You’re _jealous.”_

“No, I’m not,” Wilkinson said automatically, but his ears were red with embarrassment.

“You didn’t leak anything about him at first. I couldn’t figure out why. You were pretending he didn’t exist, weren’t you?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hurt him,” Wilkinson said. “Did you consider that?”

“He thought you were nice,” Graves told him.

Wilkinson rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. Tituba’s bones, Graves, how can you stand that insipid little creature? You have _no idea_ how tempted I was to fix your problems for you. If Sally hadn’t let your damned Auror stay, I would have. There’s a reason the androgenesis spells need to be monitored. One nudge in the wrong direction, and...” Wilkinson shrugged. “Problem solved.”

Graves went still, pushed past rage into ice cold killing intent. If he moved – if he breathed – he would murder Wilkinson in cold blood, and then Seraphina would murder him for traumatizing her favorite form of stress-relief.

 _“Accio_ wand,” Graves said. _“Incarcerus.”_

It took every ounce of willpower he had not to snap Wilkinson’s wand the way he wanted to snap Wilkinson’s neck. It was an heirloom, and the Wilkinson family would probably want it back.

“Perseverance Wilkinson, you’re under arrest.”

“You can’t arrest me!” Wilkinson protested. “I haven’t broken any laws!”

“The Love Lies Bleeding curse is blood magic,” Graves reminded him. “The penalties for blood magic are severe. And you just confessed to intended murder of a pregnant man and his unborn child, you vile little shit. _My child.”_ He forced Wilkinson to his feet. “You’re insane.”

Graves looked over at George, whose normally animated face had smoothed into something blank and expressionless. His eyes were hard and angry, unGeorgelike.

George reached out and plucked the caduceus off of Wilkinson’s robes. “You have no right to wear that,” he said. “Get him out of my office, Percival.”

Graves gave him the salute he normally reserved for Seraphina. “Yes, sir,” he said, and Apparated Wilkinson to the Woolworth Building.

 

*

 

Graves put Wilkinson in holding and went back to his office to do the paperwork. His hands shook so hard he could barely keep hold of the pen. That hadn’t happened since the war.

 _“Fuck,”_ Graves snarled, flinging it back to the surface to the desk.

He could have lost Credence. He could have lost _both of them,_ just after finally getting them free. If Collins hadn’t been with Credence – if Sally hadn’t let Collins stay – Credence would likely have bled out mere inches from freedom.

He would have woken up to find that his world had been burned to ashes: to devastation and grief and absolutely fucking _nothing,_ because none of it meant anything without Credence.

Graves did not think he could have come back from that. He needed Credence in his life the same way he needed air, because Credence was just as essential as breathing.

He could have lost Credence. He could have lost _everything._

Pull your shit together, he told himself. Focusing on what could have happened rather than what had was no way to live. It was the sort of thing that got you killed in the war, or out in the field. Graves couldn’t afford to second guess himself.

Graves ran a hand through his hair. It was still shaking.

He balled his hands into fists and concentrated on nothing but breathing until the shaking stopped.

He wanted to Apparate home and hold Credence, until he was certain that no harm could come to Credence or their son.

He wanted to go down to the cells and kill Wilkinson and Grindelwald, just to be certain that no harm would ever come to Credence or their son.

Graves picked up his pen and made himself do paperwork instead. 

 

*

 

“You seem to have my brother well in hand,” Dindrane said, after they’d retreated back into the kitchen for refreshments. “I thought he’d have you under armed guard at this point. Preferably his. However did you manage to convince him not to?” She raised her eyebrows at him, one corner of her mouth quirking into a teasing smile.

She was, Credence realized, trying to be friendly. A little bit of sisterly ribbing. She was implying that he’d used sex to get his way, which –

Well. He _had._ Kind of. He hadn’t _meant_ it as a bribe, or as some kind of distraction. He’d gone to his knees because he’d wanted to; because he liked breathing in the scent of Percival’s arousal, heavy and masculine and only for him. He wanted Percival to know that he was loved.

“It wasn’t like _that,”_ he said, blushing red all over. “I don’t think it occurred to him. We had other things to talk about.”

“You don’t think it occurred to him,” Dindrane repeated. “To Percival. _Percival Graves.”_

“Yes?”

Dindrane stared at him. “Right,” she said faintly. “I had not considered that you might be some kind of incubus.”

“What?” Credence asked, confused. “Those are real?” He’d heard of incubi and succubi; Ma’s ministry hadn’t touched on them much, but talking about sex demons was usually a good way to get their attention.

Oh, God, his sister-in-law thought he was some kind of _sex demon._ He opened his mouth to tell her that he wasn’t and abruptly realized that he could not actually use the words _sex demon_ in front of an eight-year-old. Even Ma hadn’t stooped to that, and Ma thought teaching children hopscotch songs about _murdering people_ was a good idea.

“Um. I am definitely not … Not that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Then how in magic’s name did you manage to thwart nearly forty years of overprotective impulses?” Dindrane demanded.

“I don’t know,” Credence said. “I didn’t do anything special!”

“You did,” said Dindrane. “You really, really did. Do you have any idea what Percival’s like when he’s worried about the people who matter?”

“Yes,” Credence said immediately. God, did he ever. “He deprives himself of rest to keep watch, so everyone else will feel safe enough to rest easily, and they do, because there is nowhere safer than with Percival. If there’s a threat, he deals with it or he makes sure that it’s focused on _him,_ like everything will be just fine as long as he’s the only one who gets hurt. As if he doesn’t _matter,_ which is _stupid,_ because he’s Percival and he matters more than anyone!”

“Ah,” said Dindrane. “You _do_ know.”

“Yes. That was the other thing we had to talk about last night. I love him,” he told Dindrane, who had to already know that. “I hate to see him hurt.”

“So do I,” his sister-in-law said softly.

Credence’s heart hurt for her and for Seraphina, and anyone else who loved Percival and had had to watch him hurt for far longer than he did.

“He listened,” Credence told her. “That’s one of the things I love about your brother. He _listens._ He doesn’t try to talk over me, or insist that I see things his way. He listens, and he tries to see things from my point of view, and he promised he’d try to do better.”

He was not prepared for the way Dindrane’s brown eyes – so much like Percival’s own – filled with tears. She dashed them away with a careless swipe of her hand and pulled him into a hug so tight it almost hurt.

“Thank you,” she breathed. _“Thank you_ for being what he needs.”

“Mamá?” Lance asked, abandoning his book. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, _mijo,”_ Dindrane reassured him, letting go of Credence so she could pull Lance into her lap. “I’m just grateful Uncle Percival found someone as special as Uncle Credence to love him.” She pressed a kiss to Lance’s temples and laughed while he squirmed, but she was looking straight at Credence when she added, “Uncle Credence is a miracle.”

Lance considered that. It looked like he was about to ask why, and then he got distracted when a pigeon cooed indignantly outside.

“Don’t be mean,” Lance scolded Asher, who had endured Lance’s version of petting with the same befuddled look Asher used on everything. “Sometimes other pigeons will deliver mail to your people, but you can’t be mean to them for it. You have to share.”

Asher gave Lance a befuddled look and cooed again. The look he gave the other pigeon was more suspicious than befuddled, though.

Maybe Asher was a magic pigeon after all. Credence made a mental note to ask Newt about that tomorrow, after Newt and Jacob finished moving in.

“Ow!” Lance said. He’d tried to take the letter from the other pigeon and it had pecked him.

“That’s a MACUSA bird,” Dindrane said. “You can tell by the markings. Some of them are trained to only give up the letters to the person they’re addressed to.”

Both pigeons looked the same, as far as Credence could tell, but he definitely wasn’t going to say so in case the pigeons could understand him. He was starting to think that the postal pigeons could.

“I’m Credence,” he said to the pigeon. “May I have my letter, please?”

The MACUSA bird held it’s leg out and let him slip the little strip of paper from it. The little strip of paper expanded into a full-sized letter.

 

_Credence,_

_I would appreciate it if you would ask our guests, if any, to allow us some privacy for dinner this evening._

_Love, P._

 

Something was wrong, Credence thought. Percival had tight, slanting handwriting. This letter had obviously been written by Percival himself, but there was something subtly off about it. The script didn’t slant quite as much, nor were the letters quite as close together as they ought to have been. It looked like Percival had written each one with careful deliberation, as though something awful might happen if he didn’t.

“Credence?” Dindrane asked, rising to her feet.

Credence made himself smile. He didn’t want to worry Lance. “We’re expecting houseguests soon,” he told Dindrane. “Tomorrow, in fact. Percival mentioned that he was hoping for a quiet dinner with just the two of us this evening. I think he’d like to enjoy the privacy while it lasts.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Credence had never been very good at lying; Ma had always known, somehow, and the extra licks for lying on top of whatever sin he’d committed had rarely been worth it. But there were ways to lie while telling the complete truth, and Credence had gotten pretty good at those.

He did not want to show Dindrane the letter. She and Lance were family, not guests, and at any other point in time Credence would have been mortified to send them away.

Something was wrong, though. Wrong enough that Percival, who never asked for anything, had asked for privacy.

Privacy was not a very big thing to ask for. Credence would have given him a lot more than that, and gladly.

“Of course,” Dindrane said smoothly. “You should enjoy it while it lasts Once your little one arrives, your privacy is going to vanish.”

She didn’t believe him. Credence could see that she didn’t believe him, but she went along with his half-truths anyway. Why? To spare Lance?

No. Dindrane was Percival’s sister; she was the child of an Auror just as much as he was. She knew something was wrong, and she trusted him to deal with it.

“You should visit Boston,” Dindrane advised. “You should meet the rest of the family.”

“What?” Lance asked, sounding bewildered and upset. “Why are we leaving, Mamá? We haven’t even seen Uncle Percival yet.”

Dindrane tapped his nose. “Uncle Percival is a very busy man. We’ll see him some other time.”

“But –”

“You can show both of them your experiments when they visit.”

Lance still looked upset, so Credence knelt down so he could talk to Lance at eye level. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have warned you about our houseguests earlier.”

“Can I be a houseguest?”

“Not this time. Our houseguests are part of an investigation.” That was more or less the truth. Newt and Jacob had helped bring Mr. Grindelwald down, and they were staying at the safe house because of Theseus, who was _definitely_ a part of the investigation.

Credence wondered if Theseus would be staying with them too, or if he was expected to stay with the rest of the delegation.

Lance sighed. He wilted a bit in disappointment. “Oh.”

“Did you want to read a story to the baby before you go?” Credence asked.

Lance looked back at Dindrane. “Can I?”

“Of course,” said Dindrane.

Credence settled onto the couch and listened intently as Lance read a story about Sir Lancelot of the Lake, peering at the moving illustrations.

This was what Modesty should have been like, he thought. Happy and safe and loved. He wished he’d been able to save her.

There were hugs aplenty before Lance and Dindrane departed. Without them, the house seemed empty and still, full of quiet worry.

Worrying means you suffer twice, he thought. It was a very Newt thing to say.

Credence went back up the stairs. He could fill the house with worry, or he could make it welcome for Jacob and Newt.

He’d had enough of suffering. He wanted to try something different for a change.

 

*

 

Credence met Graves in the hallway, his lovely face suffused with worry. Graves was horribly, painfully relieved to see him, even though he knew that Credence was fine. Credence looked exactly as he had when Graves had Apparated to work this morning; he was still wearing the same well-fitted charcoal gray trousers and pale blue button down shirt. At some point during the day, he’d unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. The swell of his stomach was clearly visible, proof that their child was still alive: still safe.

Graves wasn’t entirely sure why he expected Credence to look different. Nothing had changed, after all.

He still felt like the world had been turned upside down, though.

Graves pulled Credence into his arms. Credence went easily, ignoring the way that Graves was clinging to him in favor of clinging back. Graves didn’t know how long they stood there for. The only thing that mattered was Credence, who was warm and reassuringly solid, pressed to the length of Graves’ body.

“What happened?” Credence asked, when Graves finally let him go.

Graves clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to tell Credence about Wilkinson. He wanted to shelter Credence from the panicked _what if’s_ that had been plaguing him all afternoon.

Credence wouldn’t thank him for that, though. They were partners. And Credence deserved to know what marrying Graves would cost him; that the fact that Graves loved him would put him in other people’s crosshairs.

“I arrested Wilkinson,” Graves said.

“Healer Wilkinson from St. Brigid’s?” Credence asked. “Why?”

“He was the leak. He also sent me Love Lies Bleeding roses earlier today. The blood he used to power the curse on the roses was mine.”

“What,” Credence said flatly.

“It was stupid,” Graves said. “Do you want to talk about this somewhere else? This isn’t a conversation we should have in the hallway.”

Credence nodded. He reached out and took Graves’ hand, tugging him into the kitchen. He didn’t let go of Graves’ hand once they sat down at the table.

“What are Love Lies Bleeding roses?” Credence asked. “How did he use your blood to power the curse? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” said Graves. “I’m not hurt. He must have taken some of my blood when I was in St. Brigid’s.”

Credence nodded. “The curse?”

“A minor one, mostly used by jilted lovers and stalkers. Cast the curse on a bouquet of roses, then prick your finger on the thorns. The roses look ordinary, but after a few hours they start to bleed. It’s primarily used to emotionally manipulate people, or to intimidate them,” Graves explained. “You hurt me, I’m bleeding. Or I love you so much I bleed for you. That sort of thing. As if anyone who stoops to using a spell like that knows anything about love.”

“Why would Heal– Why would Wilkinson use that spell on you?” Credence asked, abandoning his scrupulously correct use of Wilkinson’s title. His eyes glittered with suppressed fury.

Mine, Graves thought, with vicious satisfaction. Credence was his equal, his partner; the one person who could match all his rough edges. Credence would defend their family with tooth and claw.

“Did you jilt him?”

“Not in the way that you’re thinking,” Graves hastened to assure him. “We were never lovers. Wilkinson wanted to be, and he thought that wanting me meant that he could have me. He was wrong.” Graves had never told anyone about finding Wilkinson in his hotel room. It wouldn’t have been honorable, for one thing, and cruel, for another. No one loved wisely at nineteen, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be mocked for it. Especially not by someone older and in a position of power. “I thought he’d be embarrassed for a time and then fall for someone else – someone closer to his own age.” Graves swallowed hard. “I was wrong, too.”

Credence inhaled sharply. “He’s still in love with you,” he said, his ferocious intellect connecting the dots and revealing a pattern. He really would have made a fine Auror. “He can’t have you, though. You’re _mine.”_

Graves raised their linked hands and pressed a kiss to Credence’s knuckles. “Yes,” he agreed. “I am. In breath and body, blood and bone. I am yours and you are mine, from this day until my last. There is no other for me but you.”

“There is no other for me, either,” Credence said. “There will never be another.”

“You might be safer, with someone else,” Graves pointed out. Someone who had not spent half his life making enemies on MACUSA’s behalf.

Credence snorted. “As if there’s anyone safer than _you.”_

Fuck. This was going to hurt.

“I haven’t told you the worst of it, yet,” Graves said. He could not stop his hands from trembling when he said, “If Collins hadn’t been in the exam room with you the night we got free, Wilkinson would have hurt you. He would have twisted the androgenesis spells so that … so that you’d lose our child. Then he’d have left you to bleed out.”

The kitchen exploded. Graves automatically cast a shield charm to shelter them from the worst of the debris. Every bit of glass in the kitchen had shattered: all the windows, and from the sound of it, every bit of china in the cabinets, too.

“He _dares,”_ Credence snarled. He looked like vengeance and wrath personified; a wild, fae creature who could not be held to human laws and should never, ever be crossed. “Take me to him,” he demanded. “I want him to know what happens to people who frighten my husband and threaten my son. I am going to _rip his heart out,_ since he clearly has no use for it.”

“Fuck,” Graves breathed. He reminded himself that he was an Auror, and that it was _completely inappropriate_ to find declarations of murderous intent cause for arousal.

 _“Percival,”_ Credence said. His expression suggested that he also found declarations of murderous intent an inappropriate cause for arousal.

It did very little to quell Graves’ actual arousal, because it was _Credence:_ his partner, his lover.

His other half.

Still. He’d managed to control himself when he was a spotty teenager who thought of sex what felt like once every four seconds. He could control himself now.

“I can’t take you to Wilkinson,” he said, pleased with how steady his voice sounded. “He’s MACUSA’s prisoner now. You – _we_ – can’t hurt him for the same reasons Grindelwald’s still breathing. Harming a prisoner in MACUSA’s custody would be an abuse of power.”

Credence snarled something under his breath. He stood up suddenly, dropping himself into Graves’ lap. He fisted his hands in Graves’ lapels and hauled him in for a kiss, fierce and hot and possessive.

“Take me to bed, Percival.”

“We should clean up in here,” Graves pointed out.

Credence quirked one eyebrow at him. _“Reparo,”_ he said.

Graves watched, amazed, as all the windows repaired themselves at the same time, a casual display of power that made his cock throb.

“Take me to bed,” Credence said again.

“Yes, dear.”

 

*

 

They stumbled backwards into their bedroom, still kissing. Credence’s quick, clever fingers made short work of Graves’ greatcoat and shirt, which lay forgotten on the floor somewhere behind them. 

He pressed his face into the curve of Graves’ neck, gradually moving lower so he could mouth at Graves’ left collarbone.

“I like your scent,” Credence said. “Is that weird? I do, though.”

“It’s my cologne,” Graves told him, running his hands over every bit of Credence he could reach. “Robert made it for me. Bit of an odd gift, seeing as he’s my brother-in-law, but he’s a potions master.”

“No,” Credence said. “Not that. I like that too, but I meant I like _your_ scent.”

“And what do I smell like?” Graves asked, tilting his head back obligingly so Credence could suck a hickey high on his throat, well above where the starched fabric of his shirt collars would rest tomorrow. He’d have to spell it away.

Credence bit down hard, leaving a ring of teeth around the bruise.

“Fuck!” Graves said, going weak-kneed in startled pleasure.

“Home,” Credence said.

“What?”

“You smell like home,” Credence clarified. He caressed the bruise and the bite mark he’d just left behind, eyes gone dark with want. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything,” said Graves, and meant it.

“Leave this,” Credence said, his thumb smoothing back and forth. “For tomorrow. I want Wilkinson to know that he can’t have you; that you’re mine.”

“You have a surprisingly vindictive streak,” Graves observed. “I like it. It’s very Pukwudgie of you.”

“Wilkinson frightened you,” said Credence. “No one gets to frighten my people. Not ever.”

Graves opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t been frightened and paused, because he didn’t need to lie, nor did he particularly want to. Not to Credence.

His parents had never lied to one another, as far as he could recall.

“I could have lost you,” Graves said instead. “I could have lost both of you.”

“You didn’t,” Credence reminded him. “You won’t.” He pressed one of Graves’ hands over his heart. “Feel that? I’m still here.”

“I know,” Graves said, because he did. The threat to Credence had long been passed. And Credence had a shield charm of his own now. It wouldn’t protect him from everything, but he was significantly safer than most wizards were.

“I’m still here,” Credence repeated. He tilted his head up and Graves kissed him obligingly, careful and sweet and slow.

“Yes,” Graves rumbled, his panicked lizard hindbrain soothed by Credence’s solid presence in his arms. “You are.”

No harm had come to Credence, despite what Wilkinson had wanted. It was his duty to see that no harm would ever come to Credence, his enemies be damned.

He was a Graves, and he could do no less for the one who held his heart.

He wanted to make love to Credence the way he had not had a chance to yesterday, distracted as he was by Credence’s mouth. Graves took his time stripping Credence out of his clothes, pressing reverent kisses against the newly revealed skin. He lingered on the healed skin of Credence’s elbow. The finger shaped bruises were gone, and part of him wanted to make sure that Credence would wear no marks but his own.

“Please,” said Credence. “I want –”

“You want?” Graves prompted.

“I want to touch you,” Credence said. “All over, the way you like to touch me. Can I do that?”

“You can have anything you want, my love.”

The smile Credence gave him was dazzling. “Good.”

Graves would not remember the last time he’d had a lover so eager to caress every bit of him, excepting the one place he most wanted to be touched. Graves preferred focusing on giving pleasure rather than receiving it; he always had. There was something intoxicating about finding all the ways he could make someone fall apart, to watch them peak beneath his ministrations.

It was different with Credence. He wanted Credence any way Credence would let him have him. If Credence wanted to caress every inch of Graves’ skin, Graves was more than happy to let him. It all belonged to Credence anyway.

“Before I met you, I used to wonder if anyone would ever love me the way I wanted to be loved,” Credence told him softly. “I knew they wouldn’t, because Ma as good as told me that, but it didn’t stop me from _wanting._

“And then I met you.” Credence pressed a kiss to the curve of Graves’ hip, his hands trailing down Grave’s back in slow worship. “You were so much better than anything I could have imagined. I didn’t have the imagination for anyone as wonderful as you, not back then. You treated me like a person; like I mattered even though you didn’t know me from Adam.

“You made me feel safe. You make everyone feel safe. Me, Seraphina, your team. Dindrane and her kids. MACUSA. I didn’t know what that felt like, before I met you. I’d never been safe before that. Not once in twenty-two years.”

“Fuck,” Graves breathed. He had an inkling of what Credence’s life had been like before Grindelwald had dragged him down the stairs to their cell, but the reality of it was so much worse. “Credence…”

“I don’t regret it,” Credence said fiercely. “I don’t regret any of it, and I’m not sorry about it either. I would relive every second of it all over again if I had to, and I wouldn’t change anything as long as it led me to you.” He crawled into Graves’ lap and bent down to kiss him. “You taught me what it was like to love – to _be_ loved, wholeheartedly and true. You taught me that love doesn’t have to hurt; that loving someone means you want better for them rather than holding them back.

“You gave me freedom and a future and a family, and I am so, so thankful that I get to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

“You make me sound like a much better man than I am,” Graves rasped.

“Idiot,” Credence said fondly. “You’re the best man I know. My Percival,” he added, possessive. “Fierce and righteous and mine.” He finally, finally wrapped a hand around Graves’ cock, the physical pleasure almost an afterthought. “I want you to feel me and know that I’m yours,” Credence said. He wriggled invitingly, positioning himself over Graves’ cock. Graves had barely enough presence of mind to cast the spells to get him slick and open before Credence was sinking down, back arched with pleasure, a breathless sob ringing in the air between them.

“I am yours and you are mine,” Credence said, rising back up on his knees and sinking down slowly, pleasure written in the curve of his spine, the upward tilt of his child-round belly, the gorgeous flush of his cheeks. “No one can take me from you. Not Mr. Grindelwald, not Wilkinson. No one. I won’t let them.”

“I’ll kill anyone who tries,” Graves promised.

Credence smiled at him, all teeth. “Not if I get to them first.”

That thought _definitely_ shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was. Graves tilted his hips, shifting the angle just enough to make Credence fall apart in another handful of thrusts. Credence barely seemed to notice his own orgasm, caught up as he was in wringing Graves’ from him.

Credence went boneless and limp in the aftermath, slumping into Graves’ arms. He rested his head in the curve of Graves’ neck, nipping at the bruise he’d left behind. “My Percival,” he repeated.

“I’m grateful too,” Graves said.

“Hm?”

“I’m glad I get to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

Credence had soothed the tension he’d carried with him since Wilkinson’s arrest. It had fallen away beneath Credence’s hands, shriveling up and turning to dust. Graves did not feel undone so much as rewritten, with only the best parts of himself left behind.

This was what being partners meant. Their marriage would be a true partnership; Credence had proved himself more than Graves’ equal.

“Oh,” Credence said. His smile was a small, quiet thing, something for just the two of them. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I super want to know who you thought sent the roses. Everyone who has guessed so far has been right, but I'm intrigued by the possibility of other suspects.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author emerges from the wilderness after 84 years with an update. Sorry guys.

Goldstein took one look at Graves and went faintly pink with embarrassment. Hughes noticed, because Hughes delighted in tormenting the rookies, and immediately identified Graves as the source of Goldstein’s embarrassment.

“Boss,” she said, sounding delighted.

Graves gave her his best deadpan expression. “Hughes.”

“You’ve got a little something right here,” she said, gesturing to the same spot on her own neck.

That, of course, caught Collins’ attention. Collins looked from Hughes to Graves and promptly turned a splotchy tomato color.

“Do I?” Graves inquired. He lifted one eyebrow at Hughes in silent inquiry. He was happy to let her push, if that was what she wanted. There would, however, be consequences. A couple weeks of surveillance duty would remind Hughes to mind her own business.

“Maybe not,” said Hughes. She hated surveillance duty, and she knew him well enough to read the unspoken threat.

“Moving on, then. Collins and Goldstein, you’re with me today on Grindelwald duty. Summersea, I’d like you to take point on the Wilkinson case. I’ll get you the file. Hughes, I want you reviewing the safety protocols for after the ICW delegation gets here. If I left any holes, I want them filled.”

Summersea nodded. Everyone else exchanged startled glances.

“Sir,” Collins said hesitantly.

“You and Goldstein are members of Major Investigations,” Graves said, over the question Collins was too polite to ask, which was, _are you sure you want **us** with you?_ “More importantly, you’re _my_ team, and I trust you at my back.”

 _“Sir,”_ Collins said again, squaring his shoulders.

Goldstein’s blush had faded, leaving only determination in its place. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Excellent,” said Graves. “Let’s get to work.”

“Director Graves?” McRory called, from across the bullpen. “May I have a word?”

“Of course,” Graves said.

“I’d like to look over the security protocols with Hughes, if I may,” McRory said.

Graves considered that. It would be useful to have a second set of eyes look them over.

“I’m an administrator,” McRory said, almost apologetically. “Hughes isn’t. You’re not either, for all that you’ve no choice in the matter.”

“No,” Graves agreed. “I’m not. I’m used to looking at things from a boots on the ground perspective. You see things a bit differently. We’ll need that. Magic knows this is going to be enough of a mess otherwise. I’d appreciate your perspective, Aidan.”

McRory smiled at him, relieved. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” said Graves.

 

*

 

“How do wizards defend themselves in England?” Credence asked, once Newt and Jacob had gotten settled in their respective rooms.

“Rather like they do here, I imagine,” Newt said.

Credence paused, because that was the first time Newt had been anything other than a font of knowledge about anything. Credence was more than a little convinced that Newt knew everything.

Newt caught his surprise and smiled at him. “My education is … hm. How do I put this? A bit informal.”

Jacob frowned at that. “I thought you went to some fancy wizard school,” he said. “Hogwash?”

“Hog _warts,”_ Newt said.

“I’m not sure that’s any better, pal.”

“Hogwarts is the finest wizarding school in the world,” Newt said. “I went there, for a little while. I was sent down after an incident.”

“Sent down?” asked Credence.

“Expelled,” Jacob translated, looking mortally offended on Newt’s behalf. “Why would they want to get rid of _you?”_ he asked.

“It was all a misunderstanding,” said Newt. “I was allowed to sit my NEWTs – Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, that is – but I never completed what you’d call a formal education.”

There was clearly more of a story there, and Newt was just as clearly disinclined to tell it. Credence did not want to push; Newt’s secrets and his history were his own, and only he could decide when he wanted to share them. God knew there were parts of _his_ past he didn’t want to share with anyone.

Jacob still looked offended on Newt’s behalf, but he didn’t push either. “Must be a special place,” he agreed.

“It is,” Newt said. “I did learn how to fight, though. Theseus taught me.” He smiled, wryly. “He claims it’s a side effect of having an Auror in the family, but I think it’s just because he’s overprotective.” He looked faintly exasperated by that.

Percival got the same look, sometimes, when he was talking to or about Dindrane. Credence suspected that was how younger siblings were supposed to look, when they knew their big brothers and sisters cared for them.

Would Modesty have looked like that, if he’d been able to save her?

Would his son, and any children they had after?

God, he hoped so.

“I can show you what I know,” Newt offered. “I’m not a duelist, but Theseus taught me how to survive, which I wager is more important in the long run.”

“I’d like that,” Credence said. It sounded more in line with what Dindrane and Percival said about how a proper Graves was supposed to fight.

“Jacob, would you mind?”

Jacob raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You want me to help?”

“If you wouldn’t mind playing my lovely assistant,” said Newt.

“Course not,” said Jacob staunchly. “I just thought I’d need magic for this.”

Newt grinned. It was a surprisingly mischievous grin. “Let’s head down to the garden, shall we? It’s better to duel with a bit of space.”

Once they were in the backyard, Newt handed Jacob a stick. “Pretend it’s a wand and you’re going to hex me with it. I’m going to disarm you, if that’s alright?”

Jacob gamely pointed it at him. “Sure thing, pal.”

 _“Expelliarmus,”_ said Newt, with a spiraling motion of his wand. A jet of red light flew from his wand, and the stick flew out of Jacob’s hand.

“Jeepers!” Jacob yelped.

“Are you alright?” Credence asked.

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine,” Jacob said, shaking out his hand. “That felt weird, is all.”

“The disarming charm is said to be at the heart of good dueling technique,” Newt said, collecting the stick and handing it to Credence this time. “If timed correctly, you can use it to rebound your opponent’s spells, or to disarm them. If you’re casting in tandem with another wizard, you will both disarm your opponent and blast them backwards. Not that we’ll be trying that on you. May I?”

That was another thing Credence liked about Newt. He always asked.

“Go ahead,” said Credence.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Newt said again.

The stick was wrenched from Credence’s hand with another flash of red light. “Oh,” said Credence. That spell would have been useful, back when Ma used to hurt him. “Can you do that with anything?” he asked. “Or is it just for wands?”

“It works on most things,” Newt told him.

“Huh,” Jacob mused. “Wonder if it works on guns?”

Newt tilted his head to one side, considering. “I’ve never tried it on a Muggle weapon,” he said, considering.

“Not today,” Credence said firmly. “And _definitely_ not without Percival.” Credence had no idea whether or not their neighbors were also wizards, but he suspected flying guns were the sort of thing anyone would find alarming.

Newt huffed. “Back to the disarming charm, then,” he said. “This is the proper wand motion,” he told Credence. “Did you see how the light flashed red?”

Credence nodded.

“The color corresponds with the strength of the spell,” said Newt. “Weaker spells will be white, and stronger ones will be red.” He offered Credence his wand. “Care to give it a try?”

Newt’s wand felt different from Percival’s or Dindrane’s. The magic of it felt unfamiliar. Credence gave it an experimental flick, startling back when red sparks burst from the end.

“Don’t worry,” Newt murmured. “It’ll work.”

Credence’s first attempts produced a weak white light. The stick stayed firmly in Newt’s grasp.

“Credence,” Newt said, quiet but firm. “Don’t be afraid. Even if you send me flying, you’re not going to hurt me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Credence protested automatically. Was he? He didn’t want to hurt Newt, who had only ever been kind to him. Not now and not ever.

“Kinda think you are, buddy,” Jacob said. “You’re not moving like someone who means it. I don’t know about magic, but that’s the sort of thing that got people killed in the war. You gotta learn not to hesitate.”

Credence squashed his instinctive response, which was to say that he didn’t know how not to hesitate. Ma had taught him to be cautious, to hesitate before he said or did anything, lest he incur her wrath. It was too deeply ingrained in who he was.

He didn’t know how to be a wizard, either, but he was learning. He could learn this too.

“Okay,” Credence said, straightening his shoulders. “One more time. Ready, Newt?”

“Fire at will,” Newt said cheerfully.

 _“Expelliarmus,”_ Credence said firmly. The jet of red light sent Newt stumbling back a step, the stick wrenched from his hand. It landed somewhere on the far side of the back garden.

“You did it!” Jacob crowed.

“Well done!” Newt added.

Credence beamed at both of them. “I think I can do that again,” he said.

Newt found another stick. “Let’s give it a try then, shall we?”

 

*

 

“My, my,” Grindelwald said. “Darling Credence _has_ grown bold, hasn’t he? And here I thought you were the possessive one.”

Graves gave him a bored look. “You know, when the Special Tribunal told me you wanted to talk, I assumed that you actually had something to say. How foolish of me.”

“Credence carries my general. It’s only natural that I be interested in his well-being. Will he pine without you, do you think? Or will he replace you with the next person to treat him gently? Perhaps your replacement should rough him up a bit. He’ll take to whomever I choose next much faster that way.”

Goldstein snarled under her breath, drawing Grindelwald’s attention.

“Hello, Tina,” Grindelwald said pleasantly. “How have you been, my dear?”

“Hey. Asshole. Eyes on me,” Graves snarled, coming up out of his lazy sprawl to loom over Grindelwald.

“Why, Percival, it seems I’ve struck a nerve. Don’t tell me the lovely Miss Goldstein has caught your eye.” Grindelwald considered that. “Her coloring is remarkably like Credence’s, isn’t it? You’ve got a type.”

“No, you had it right the first time. I _am_ the possessive one. You don’t get to talk to my people like you know them.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Grindelwald. “I confess, I’m surprised to find you so protective of Credence, Tina. I rather thought you harbored a tendre for the troublemaking Mr. Scamander.”

Goldstein went beet red, but she had the good sense to say nothing.

“You _do_ ,” Grindelwald said, sounding pleased with himself. “You could do better.”

That was too much for Goldstein to bear. “Sir,” she growled. “May I have permission to hex Grindelwald?”

“I’m tempted to let you punch him in the dick,” Graves mused. “But no. It sets a bad precedent.”

“Damn,” said Goldstein.

“You’ve been a terrible influence on her,” Grindelwald said to Graves, reproachful.

“I’m so proud. I may cry,” Graves deadpanned. “Did you have anything _useful_ to say, or did you just want a verbal sparring partner?”

“You seem a bit on edge today,” Grindelwald pointed out. “What happened to your clever insinuations? I thought you wanted to make me bleed.”

For a second, Graves was tempted to tell him the truth: that someone had threatened both Credence and the child. Death by Grindelwald was nothing less than what Wilkinson deserved, but if he did that – if he fed Wilkinson to Grindelwald to serve his own ends – then he would be no better than either of them.

He would not be a man worthy of Credence if he did that.

“I realize this is going to be difficult for you to understand, Grindelwald, but you are not actually the center of the universe. If you have nothing worthwhile to say, I’m leaving.”

Grindelwald considered that for a long moment. Graves waited him out. He was so very good at waiting, now.

“What do you think you know, about what I’m going to do?” Grindelwald asked.

“You’ve read too many penny dreadfuls if you really expect me to tell you how the investigation is going,” Graves told him.

“I’m just curious to see if you’ve divined the true reason behind my actions yet,” Grindelwald said airily. “Nevermind. I can see that you haven’t. Run along, Percival, and take the children with you.”

“One of those children helped bring you down,” Graves said.

Grindelwald scoffed. “A miscalculation I mean to remedy.” The cold look in his eyes told Graves exactly how he intended to remedy it.

Graves reached out and grasped Grindelwald’s chin, forcing Grindelwald to look at him. “I told you: eyes on me.”

“I see you, Percival,” Grindelwald replied. “I see your desperation, your fear. I can almost taste them.”

“You can choke on it, for all I care,” Graves said, hauling Grindelwald to his feet. “Just as long as you remember that my face is going to be the last thing you ever see.”

Grindelwald laughed at him. “Oh, Percival,” he sighed. “You do make the most charming promises.”

Yes, Graves thought. And I keep them. He kept that thought to himself, and marched Grindelwald back to his cell.

Fuchs waited just down the hall, a solitary sentinel. Graves wanted to wave him off; Grindelwald wouldn’t be easy to read, today. Graves had not ripped him open so that Fuchs could read his entrails. He wanted to spare Fuchs that much, at least.

He didn’t. He couldn’t afford to, and they both knew it.

This was the first time Grindelwald had alluded to a larger plan beyond subjugating the No-Maj’s and eventual world domination. If Fuchs could get it out of him, Graves wanted to know what it was.

“Go on without me,” he told Collins and Goldstein.

Collins hesitated.

Goldstein put her hand on his arm and shook her head. She lived with a Legilimens; she understood that some things were better left unspoken but not unsaid. Collins frowned, but he let her tug him away.

Graves waited until the two of them had gone before he extended his hand to Fuchs, palm up.

Fuchs knew what that gesture meant just as well as Graves did. He placed his hand in Graves’ and accepted the power Graves offered.

 _I’m sorry_ , Graves thought, careful to keep his mental voice low and quiet. Shouting at a Legilimens was rude. _I’d spare you this if I could, but I can’t_.

 _You’ve fought alone for long enough, Director_ , Fuchs replied. _Let us fight alongside you, as we are meant to. A king is not meant to take the field alone_.

It startled the hell out of Graves. He’d been taught Legilimency theory as an Auror trainee, but he was far better at closing his mind off than he was opening it up. He could use Legilimency to determine when someone was lying to him, but that was about it, and he’d never found it worth the hassle. He could use instinct and his own observational skills to do the same thing with far less bother.

Legilimens could read minds, but they weren’t telepaths by any stretch of the imagination. Just how strong was Fuchs, that he could speak in someone else’s mind instead of listen?

He felt, rather than heard, Fuchs’ amusement.

 _I’m not a king_ , he said.

 _You’re as much a king as I am_ , Fuchs pointed out, offering up the image of himself in plate armor and chainmail. The aging warrior king Graves had imagined him as.

 _Fuck_ , Graves thought, embarrassed.

 _Don’t be_ , said Fuchs. _I’m honored by your regard. And I believe I speak for the rest of Magical Security when I say it is an honor to serve with you_.

Graves saluted him with a flick of his wand. “Good hunting,” he said.

 

*

  
Rumor and gossip were the lifesblood that powered the Woolworth Building. Graves did not have a Healer’s understanding of the human body, but he suspected the different levels of gossip and the routes that rumor traveled were not entirely dissimilar from the various systems that kept people upright and functioning. Each one accomplished something a little bit different, but was no less vital for it.

It was, therefore, entirely unsurprising to find Seraphina waiting in his office looking amused at his expense.

“Spit it out,” Graves said, throwing himself into his chair and glowering at her.

“Did you forget the charm to get rid of hickies?” she inquired. “You can’t have. Dindrane taught it to both of us Fourth Year, and you were so embarrassed you didn’t speak to either of us for two whole weeks.”

“Don’t remind me,” Graves grumbled. Getting the Talk from his father had been bad enough. Getting it again at school from Healer Zhong had been worse. Having Dindrane pull him and Seraphina aside to teach them charms to hide their dalliances was the proverbial cherry on top of the hormonal humiliation cake. He _really_ wasn’t looking forward to dealing with puberty from a parental perspective.

He swatted at Seraphina when she went to poke his neck. “Stop that!”

“I never thought I’d see the day where _you_ of all people came into work with a hickey. I thought it was unprofessional and juvenile.”

“Don’t you have a country to run?” Graves asked.

“Not right this second,” Seraphina said, leaning against his desk and grinning. “He asked you to leave it, didn’t he?”

“So what if he did?” Graves asked gruffly.

“And you left it,” she said.

“Yes, thank you, your grasp of the obvious seems to be intact. Do you really intend to keep narrating it?”

“It would serve you right if I did,” she said tartly. “I never thought I’d see the day when you played the besotted fool, either. It suits you, though.”

“Thank you for that,” Graves said, sarcastic. He was in love with a gorgeous man half his age; he knew exactly how foolish he looked.

Seraphina cuffed him upside the head. “Not like _that_ , you idiot. I told you before: love looks good on you, hickies and all. You look …” She shook her head. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like you’ve found some part of you that no one realized was missing, and now you’re whole.”

Graves considered that. It was a bit poetic, but it struck him as fundamentally true. Love should make people feel whole.

He was not admitting that to Seraphina, though. Seraphina would quietly file the comment away for years if she had to, and then bring it up again when he least expected her to for maximum embarrassment. He could see her dragging that story out for his and Credence’s ten year anniversary. It was a very Seraphina thing to do.

“Grandmama wants to meet him,” Seraphina said. “So does Auntie Violetta.”

“Ah,” said Graves, reduced to monosyllables. Grandmama Genevieve’s coven was terrifying. So was Grandmama Genevieve, in a genteel, Southern lady sort of way. He’d intended to take Credence to meet her, of course. It was only proper. He’d just hoped to have the Grindelwald mess cleared up first.

He slanted a look at Seraphina. Seraphina looked pleased with herself, without the edge of panic that heralded a visit from the coven. It was a request, then, not a demand. He had some time to make arrangements.

“He needs a wand,” Seraphina pointed out. “He could do worse than one of Auntie Violetta’s.”

“I was going to take him to see her,” Graves said. “And Mr. Jonker. And Mr. Quintana. Just … once this was all over.”

The look Seraphina gave him was kind. “Percival,” she said, managing to make his name sound like _dumbass_.

Graves sighed. “I know,” he said. “I _know_ , alright? It’s just been one fucking thing after another.”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered. “Look. Marco needs some time out of the office –”

“Does Ramirez know that?” inquired Graves, who knew full well that the answer to that was _no_. Seraphina tended to blindside Ramirez with his vacation time, mostly because he would flat out refuse to take it if she didn’t. And while Ramirez was a grown wizard who was more than capable of scheduling his own vacations, he tended to get more than a little murderous if Seraphina went too long without scheduling one for him.

No one in MACUSA wanted to see Ramirez in a murderous mood. The Target Practice Incident of ‘21 had made sure of that.

Seraphina ignored him. “He can escort Credence to Grandmama’s. He won’t fuss quite as much about taking a vacation if he thinks he’s there on bodyguard duty.”

“Wait,” said Graves. “You want to send Credence to meet Grandmama Genevieve without me? Or you?”

“Neither of us can afford to take the time off,” Seraphina pointed out, very reasonably.

“Yes, but –”

“And _he_ wants to meet her,” Seraphina continued. “He sent me a lovely letter saying as much.”

“He what?”

“Grandmama would prefer to see both of you, but she’ll be happy as long as she gets to meet the person providing her with great-grandbabies,” Seraphina continued.

“Tituba’s bones,” Graves muttered. He held up a hand when Seraphina opened her mouth to keep talking, trying to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order.

He didn’t like the thought of someone else taking Credence to Georgia, even if that someone was Ramirez. Logically, he knew that taking a Portkey across the country wasn’t _that_ much different from letting Dorothy Collins Apparate Credence across New York.

He didn’t like the thought of distance between them, though. He didn’t like knowing that he couldn’t be there in a heartbeat to protect Credence, if that was what was necessary.

Seraphina was right, though. Neither of them could afford to take time off. Not with the ICW delegation arriving any day now. They had too much work to do.

Part of him wanted to insist that Credence stay in New York, where Graves could keep him safe. He knew better than to listen to that part of himself, though. That was the part of him that wanted to keep Credence locked in the safe house under guard, just to make sure that nothing would ever hurt him ever again. That wasn’t love; that was fear.

Credence deserved better than that.

“When?” he asked.

Seraphina stared at him. “Just like that?” she demanded. “I thought I’d have to argue with you for at least the next half hour.”

“I’m not _that_ unreasonable,” Graves pointed out.

“You really, really are,” she told him. “Especially about the people that you care for.”

Graves was not going to debate his reasonability with Seraphina. She knew him too well, and she’d win.

“He deserves better,” he muttered. “I’m trying to _be_ better. About everything.”

The smile that got him was small but sincere, without even a hint of teasing to it. “You’re a good man, Percival. You don’t actually have _that_ much to improve on.”

“I can think of a few things,” Graves said. He thought of the love and desperation on Credence’s face when he’d said _I love you, and I hate to see you hurt_.

Credence wasn’t the only one. Seraphina had been the one at his bedside more often than not, every time he’d gotten injured while he was establishing himself as the Graves of MACUSA. The worst fight they’d ever had had been after he’d gotten himself shot putting himself between Seraphina and a No-Maj bullet, because he’d remembered to cast a shield on Seraphina and forgotten to put one on himself.

He was her shield; her weapon. Seraphina would not hesitate to send him into battle even if she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’d return to her with fresh injuries, but that did not mean she did not hate doing so with every fiber of her being.

Seraphina was his sister. She loved him, and she hated to see him hurt.

Graves wanted to tell her that he’d do better. That he’d _be_ better, for Credence and their son and for her.

Seraphina knew him too well to believe his bullshit, though. They’d always been better at letting their actions speak for them.

He could prove this to her the way he was going to prove it to Credence: with action as well as words.

“You’ll see,” he promised, and meant it.

 

*

 

Dorothy took him to the Great Library of MACUSA, which was located beneath the New York Public Library. Credence stopped in the marble foyer and stared, too overwhelmed to be ashamed of how naive he must look to the other patrons.

The Great Library had been built deep into the earth, but it was impossible to tell that they were underground. The ceiling was covered in mirror glass, and above the entryway hung a complicated construct made of brass and semi-precious stones. The spheres rotated at different speeds, orbiting around a bright shining stone Credence suspected was meant to be the sun. Someone had placed an illusion of stars between the construct and the mirrors; Credence could still see his own reflection in it, but distantly and against a backdrop of stars, as though he walked among the heavens.

Ma would have beaten him for such thoughts; she would have said he was blasphemous and a sinner.

Credence did not have to worry about what Ma would or would not do ever again. Freedom was almost more intoxicating than magic.

Dorothy let him stare, looking around at the Library as though his own wonder was communicable. Was she seeing it with new eyes too, Credence wondered. Or was this still ordinary and commonplace?

“I thought perhaps you’d like to read Verity’s work, before you spoke with her,” Dorothy said, once Credence had finally looked his fill. “Just to get a sense of what sort of person she is. You might not want to talk to her.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Credence asked.

Dorothy shrugged. “I’m sure she’d recommend someone you’d be comfortable with, if you didn’t,” was all she said.

Credence did not think he was ever going to get used to the fact that other people were concerned with his comfort. People who weren’t Percival, even.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” he said. “But I would like to read some of her work, now that you mention it.” He wanted to see what wizarding news that _wasn’t_ sensationalist garbage looked like.

Dorothy grinned at him. “Come on,” she said, dragging him through the stacks.

The stacks _moved_. Credence thought for sure that they would be crushed between the shelves by accident, but Dorothy floated through them like she was dancing on air. Credence followed a half-step behind, somehow still in sync despite not knowing the steps.

“How does anyone ever find anything in here?” he demanded, breathless and laughing with wonder.

“Simple,” Dorothy said, flashing her dimples at him. “They ask.”

Credence had not seen a librarian, and said so.

That made Dorothy laugh. “You _could_ ask the Librarian,” she said. “He’s a bit odd, though. Asking the Library is much safer. The Library doesn’t editorialize quite as much as the Librarian does.”

There was a pleased flutter of pages from the closest shelves. The gilt on the spines gleamed a little brighter.

“This is my favorite spot,” Dorothy confided, pulling him into a cozy alcove that Credence would have sworn had not been there a second ago. It was just big enough for two, and contained a comfortable looking royal blue loveseat and side table with a reading lamp.

Dorothy caressed the side table fondly. “ _Moment_ magazine, please,” she told it. “Anything with an article by Verity MacDuff.”

Credence blinked, because he had not expected asking the Library to be quite so literal. “Is she descended from the Twelve?” he asked. MacDuff wasn’t a common surname among No-Maj’s. He had no idea what common wizarding surnames sounded like.

“Hm? Oh, yes, she is,” said Dorothy.

Credence wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. The only other descendant of the Twelve he’d met had been Wilkinson.

He’d liked Wilkinson. Trusted him, even. He would be more careful about who he trusted in the future.

A stack of magazines appeared on the side table. A second later, so did two mugs of cocoa.

“Um,” said Credence. “Thank you?”

A blank white card appeared on the topmost magazine. It did not stay blank for very long. Burning gold script appeared, glowing brightly for a moment before fading into surprisingly neat black script.

_You’re welcome. Congratulations to you both. May their hearts be true and their magic strong. May their minds be wise and their lives be long._

Dorothy blushed when she read it. “It’s early yet,” she said.

_Trust the Library, Mrs. Collins._

“Always,” Dorothy said.

“Thank you,” Credence said. He picked up his cocoa and tasted it. He’d never had cocoa before, and he was entirely unprepared for how rich and sweet and good it was. How did people ever eat anything _but_ chocolate, he wondered. “It’s delicious,” he told the Library, and got a pleased rustle of pages in response.

He set the cocoa aside carefully and picked up a magazine, not wanting to dirty it by accident. It did not take him very long to find the article by Verity MacDuff it contained. He sank a little deeper into the loveseat and started reading.

 

*

 

Verity MacDuff was an engaging, entertaining writer. If she had any particular biases, Credence could not tell what they were based on her articles, which was a dramatic improvement over everything he’d ever read in the _New York Ghost_. Credence thought she sounded smart: well-educated and well-traveled in a way that reminded him of Newt, whose manuscripts were surprisingly concise and clear despite his tendency to ramble in person.

He thought that he’d like her, if she was anything like Newt.

In person, Verity MacDuff was a little bit like Newt and a little bit like Queenie. She didn’t sparkle the way that Queenie did – no one sparkled the way that Queenie did – but she _listened_.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Credence said, taking a seat inside the cafe Tina had recommended because it had good sightlines and wasn’t generally frequented by anyone from MACUSA or the _New York Ghost_ , even if the pastries weren’t as good as Jacob’s. Newt and Jacob were seated two tables away, just in case. Jacob appeared to be dissecting his pastry and reconstructing the recipe, or possibly just taking notes on how he’d make it better.

Credence did not think he _needed_ Newt and Jacob as back-up, seeing as he had Dorothy sitting right next to him, but both Percival and Tina had insisted.

 _Aurors_.

Verity grinned at him, impish and delighted. “You kiddin’ me?” she asked, her accent pure New Jersey. “I oughta be thankin’ you. It ain’t everyday we get to scoop the _Ghost_ , much less with somethin’ this big.”

Credence hesitated.

Verity’s smile dimmed. “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” Credence hastened to assure her. “It’s just. I know this is just a story for you. You’re a reporter, you probably hear lots of stories. But –” He fidgeted and forced the rest of the words out. “But it’s _my life_. More importantly, it’s my son’s life. My fiancé’s. Please, _please_ be careful with them.”

“Always,” Verity swore. “I’ll swear it on my life – my _magic_ – if you want me to.”

Credence did, a little. As far as he could tell, wizards believed that swearing on their magic was more sacred than swearing on a Bible. It wasn’t the sort of oath one violated lightly.

“No,” he said. “That won’t be necessary. Dorothy and Queenie vouched for you because your sister did. I trust their judgement, and they trust your sister’s.”

Maybe it was naive of him, but Credence had to trust _someone_. He trusted Dorothy and Queenie, and Dorothy and Queenie trusted Victoria MacDuff. Victoria trusted Verity, and that was good enough for Credence. It wasn’t the sort of trust you could build alliances on, but maybe it was more important than that. Maybe it was the sort of trust that got you through ordinary, everyday life because you had to trust someone and a little bit went a long way.

Credence did not know how to build alliances, or who to build them with. He suspected it didn’t really matter. What were alliances in the face of a better world – a kinder one? Dorothy and Tina would help him build one of those. So would Queenie and Newt and Jacob.

So would Percival.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright,” said Verity. “Do you mind if I record this?”

“Not at all.”

Verity tapped her pearl bob earrings with her wand. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself,” she said.

Credence took a sip of his tea. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about what he wanted to say, if Verity would agree to interview him, and how to say it.

“My name is Credence Graves,” he told her. “Up until a little over a month ago, I was the second prisoner of a man named Gellert Grindelwald. Before that, I was Credence Barebone, and I had no idea magic existed.”

Verity looked entranced. Dorothy reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Keep going,” said Verity. “Please.”

Credence did.

 

*

 

The ICW delegation arrived on Friday morning. Seraphina went to the dockyard to personally greet them and welcome them to America as they disembarked the ocean liner. Graves and his team went because Seraphina did, and because Graves was the ranking MACUSA official who would be coordinating security with Theseus. Ramirez, abusing the hell out of his position as Seraphina’s secretary, lurked in the background and glowered ferociously at anyone who got within a ten foot orbit of Seraphina. He’d already frightened one of the junior members of the ICW delegation, who had made the mistake of assuming that Ramirez was a fellow harmless paper pusher. Graves suspected that the rest of the delegation was now convinced that Ramirez provided a very different sort of personal service to Seraphina, and that it was not of the hitwizard sort. He was really looking forward to disabusing them of that notion.

There were six delegates and twice that many people on the security team, Theseus’ shock of red-brown hair standing out like a beacon. Theseus’ carefully professional expression did not change when he caught sight of Graves. Neither did Graves’. There would be time for a proper reunion later.

“Madam President,” said the lead delegate. She was a tall, broad woman with short blonde hair and piercingly blue eyes. She looked like she could twist Graves into a pretzel without magic and not even break a sweat.

“Minister Gaarder,” Seraphina replied. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to our shores.”

Gaarder snorted in clear disbelief, but was diplomatic enough to let the lie pass without remarking on it.

“Allow me to escort you to your hotel,” Seraphina continued.

“No,” said Gaarder. “We have work to do. We will go to MACUSA.”

Seraphina’s polite mask did not falter. “If that’s what you want.”

Gaarder nodded curtly. She did not seem much for small talk, which was unusual for a politician but not unwelcome. They decamped for the small fleet of Model T’s waiting for them.

“You want us to use _that?_ ” one of the delegates demanded. His accent was Scottish by way of Hogwarts, and his expression suggested that he would rather have been asked to hex himself in the face than set foot in a car.

“Will that be a problem?” Seraphina inquired, ever the gracious hostess.

“They’re perfectly safe,” Graves said. “They’re warded against damage, in the event of an accident. Our lab techs do all the modifications and maintenance on them.”

Gaarder gave the Scottish wizard a quelling look. “I’m sure we will be perfectly safe,” she said. Graves was impressed with how much pure menace she managed to pack into the words; the implication that the Scottish delegate would not be safe if he _didn’t_ get in the car.

“How marvelous,” one of the other delegates said. He was a tall man with russet colored hair and half-moon spectacles. He turned twinkling blue eyes on Graves and said, “I believe we have a friend in common, Director Graves.”

“Do we?” Graves asked.

“A dear pupil of mine,” said the delegate. “Newt Scamander. He wrote to me on your behalf. I apologize for not writing back; I thought perhaps it would be easier to answer any questions you might have in person.”

Graves heart beat faster in anticipation as he realized who the man must be. “Albus Dumbledore?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please,” said Graves. “Believe me when I say the pleasure is all mine.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's line about the Deathly Hollows being "real and dangerous and a lure for fools" is from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows,_ and not mine at all.
> 
> Sorry about the delay, guys. The lack of action from Credence's POV was driving me a little crazy and I wasn't sure how to fix it. (Do not worry, though. Credence will go back to being the adorable BAMF we all know and love in chapter 21. He has plans.)

Seraphina took the ICW delegates and their security detail to Major Investigations. They crowded around the Investigation Board while Graves and Seraphina took them through the timeline of everything Grindelwald had done since arriving in America. The junior delegate Ramirez had terrorized earlier left twice to be sick, and the others were visibly appalled. The only exceptions were Gaarder, who had the kind of poker face that would make actual statues jealous, and Dumbledore, who looked more concerned than anything else.

Concerned by what, Graves wondered. And for who?

Gaarder gave him a long, measuring look when they had finished outlining recent events. Graves met her eyes steadily. If she wanted to judge him for what he’d done to keep his people safe, he couldn’t stop her, but he’d be damned if he was ashamed of the fact that he’d survived.

“I think,” she said, turning her sapphire blue gaze on Seraphina. “That there are things we should discuss behind closed doors, Madam President. Director Scamander, would you stay and coordinate security with Director Graves?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Theseus.

Graves was glad for the chance to talk to Theseus alone. “My office?” he suggested, and got a curt nod in response. “Make sure the ICW has anything they need,” he instructed his team. “No one goes near Grindelwald without my express permission, am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, to mutinous looks from the British security team.

“Why should I take orders from you?” one of the British wizards demanded. His accent was all smooth public school pronunciation, but his features were Indian. “Grindelwald bested you.”

“Tanwar,” Theseus said warningly.

Graves held up a hand. “Let him speak his piece. We’re going to be working together, and we can’t do that if we don’t trust each other.”

“He bested you,” Tanwar said again. “If he beat you once, he can do it again. He beat you and he broke you, and he wore your face like a mask for _five months_ and no one noticed. Why should I take orders from you? You’re _weak,_ and you have no business commanding anyone.” He met Theseus’ furious gaze evenly. “I’m sorry, sir. I know he’s a friend. But I’m not saying anything the rest of us aren’t thinking."

Graves cast a silent sticking charm on Hughes, to keep her from lunging at Tanwar and breaking his nose. He should have cast one on Goldstein as well; Summersea caught her wand hand before she could fire off a hex and disarmed her.

Graves raised an eyebrow at her.

Goldstein jerked free of Summersea’s hold and straightened her clothing, glowering at everyone. She clearly didn’t regret a thing.

She really was going to be a magnificent Auror, Graves thought. If Summersea had been even a half-second slower, she’d have fired off a curse and damn the consequences.

“You’re right,” Graves said evenly. “Grindelwald beat me.” He let his power build, the way he would have if he was going to be casting a lot of wandless, wordless spells in quick succession. He pushed it out, just a little, and let them feel it.

Let them feel what nearly six months of casting spells behind magic suppressing wards had taught him to do, and then let them call him _weak_.

“He won’t beat me again,” Graves said softly, throwing the words down like a challenge.

“Merlin’s beard,” muttered the Scottish delegate. “What the hell was _that?”_

“Not what,” Goldstein corrected, with a predatory flash of teeth. “ _Who_.”

“Percival fucking Graves, that’s who,” Hughes added, folding her arms across her chest and doing a credible impression of someone whose feet were not glued to the floor.

“Right then,” said the Scottish delegate. “Tanwar, mate, I think you’re a bit off the mark.”

“What would you know, Wood?” Tanwar snapped back.

“Plenty more than you, now shut your gob before the pretty one decides to smack you in it.”

“Right,” muttered Graves. “Director Scamander, I think we can let them sort the rest of the pissing contest out for themselves. Hughes, Goldstein, if you smack anyone I will make you regret it.”

“Aw, boss, does this mean you think we’re pretty?” Hughes drawled.

“Not another word,” Collins told her. “I am _not_ sitting through another sexual harassment seminar because of you.”

Summersea cut in with a bland smile that did not match the sharpness of his eyes. “I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t we all start over?”

Graves walked into his office, satisfied that his team had the situation well in hand.

“Merlin’s balls, what a mess,” Theseus said, shutting the door behind himself. He sighed, and asked the question he’d probably wanted to ask since the docks, “How are you, Percival? Truly?”

Because he was Theseus, Graves told him the truth. “Recovering,” he admitted. “Magically, I’m doing better than I was before, but physically and mentally … That’s going to take some more time. Credence helps.”

“Credence,” Theseus repeated, something hesitant and strained in his voice.

“Spit it out,” said Graves.

“Fuck,” said Theseus. “You’re going to marry him, aren’t you? He’s carrying your child; your honor won’t stand for anything less.”

“I’d marry him even if he wasn’t carrying my child,” Graves snapped. “I love him, Theseus. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I want to spend the rest of my life loving him.”

Theseus stared at him. “You really mean that,” he said.

“I really do.” Graves sighed. “If it helps, I am aware of exactly how terrible it looks.”

“Are you?” Theseus asked. “Because it looks bloody mental.”

Graves pointed at him. “You do not get to throw stones about other people’s sanity, you reckless asshole.”

“Oi!” Theseus protested. “I’m _worried_ about you, you pillock. You got yourself kidnapped by Gellert sodding Grindelwald, of all people, and now you’ve gone and fallen in love with the wizard Grindelwald wanted to _breed you with_.”

“Ah,” said Graves. When he put it like that, it _did_ sound bloody mental, to say nothing of emotionally unhealthy. “It’s not … it’s not like that. My word as a Graves, it’s not. I didn’t fall in love with Credence because I fixated on him, or because of the shared trauma. I fell in love with him because he has the kindest, most extraordinary heart I’ve ever encountered. He’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. If I’d had to endure even _half_ of what he has, I’d be a bitter, mean old man who thought only of myself, Credence isn’t like that. He’s kind and gentle and _good_.” He wished he had the words to describe what Credence meant to him. He wished he had the words to describe _Credence_.

“Just. Give him a chance. For my sake. Please.”

Theseus stared at him, hazel eyes thoughtful. “Alright.” He shook his head, switching from personal matters to professional ones. “What was all that with Professor Dumbledore at the docks? Why did you have Newt writing him on your behalf?”

“Shit,” said Graves. “You don’t know.”

“Of course I don’t,” Theseus said impatiently. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Do you remember that bit where I mentioned Grindelwald has an eye towards dynastic world domination?”

“That was less than half an hour ago and bloody terrifying, so yes,” said Theseus. “Give me a _little_ credit, please.”

“Dumbledore is the wizard Grindelwald wants to bear his child,” said Graves. “They were lovers, once.”

“They were _what?”_ Theseus demanded.

 

*

 

“So,” said Dumbledore, an unhappy curl to his mouth. “You know, then.”

“Yes,” said Graves, since Theseus was still too enraged for words. “For some time now. It’s why I asked Newt to write to you.”

“I did wonder,” Dumbledore said. There was no twinkle in his eyes now, and the absence of it made him look old and sad and tired.

He wasn’t actually that much older than Graves was, Graves realized. Neither was Grindelwald. How strange.

“Go ahead and ask, Director. I know you have questions.”

Graves hesitated. “Legally, I have no right to question or detain a foreign national with no evidence of wrongdoing, especially not one who is under the protection of the International Confederation of Wizards. MACUSA considers you a Person of Interest in the Grindelwald investigation, but as far as we’re concerned, Grindelwald’s interest in you is unreciprocated. There is no reason for this to be anything but a friendly chat between colleagues.”

Dumbledore shuddered, some of the tension bleeding out from between his shoulders. He reminded Graves of Credence, their first few weeks together; as though he were braced for a blow and sick with the anticipation of it.

“That said,” Graves continued, his voice all steel. “If I find that you’re here because Grindelwald’s interest is reciprocated and you intend to make some sort of rescue attempt, I will kill you myself.”

“No!” Dumbledore blurted. “I don’t. I _wouldn’t.”_

“Then why are you here, Professor?” Theseus demanded. “Why did you have the Ministry send you with us? You have the pull to make them do it, I know you do. I just assumed you were here because you’re a powerful wizard in your own right, and they wanted you as insurance.” His generous mouth compressed into a grim, angry line. Theseus was angrier with himself for being deceived than he was with Dumbledore for the deception.

Graves didn’t blame him for that. The delegation was under his protection and the security team was under his command. Theseus couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Not when the stakes were this high.

“I suppose … I simply wanted to see him again,” Dumbledore said. The words sounded like ground glass in his mouth; like it hurt to even say them. “MACUSA wants him executed. Our people want him in Azkaban, or Kissed.”

Graves fought off a shudder of his own. He knew that the death penalty was considered barbaric in other countries, but he’d take a good clean death from the Department of Final Judgment over the Dementor’s Kiss in a heartbeat. He did not understand how the Ministry of Magic could reduce a man to a drooling, soulless husk and call it mercy.

“I want to remember him for who he is, not who he was,” Dumbledore finished. He looked away, rather than meet Graves’ gaze.

“What was he?” Graves prompted.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “Brilliant,” he said. “And beautiful. And –”

Graves watched his lips shape the word he could not say: _Mine._

“Do you know what he wants?” Graves asked.

Dumbledore drew a pendant out from beneath his shirt. It was a flat silver disc on a leather cord. It bore a symbol inset in onyx: a circle contained inside a triangle, with a straight line bisecting both.

Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights. That was a shield charm; Graves was sure of it.

Grindelwald had loved Dumbledore, once. So deeply and so truly he’d risked his own magic to keep Dumbledore safe. It still hadn’t been enough to keep Dumbledore with him.

No wonder that love had left scars. On both of them, if Dumbledore’s miserable expression was any indicator.

“Do you know what this symbol means?” Dumbledore asked.

“Grindelwald favors it,” Graves said. “He carved it into the walls at Durmstrang. And my fucking basement.” He’d hated that fucking carving; the reminder of his own failures.

“The straight line represents the Elder Wand,” Dumbledore told him. “The circle represents the Resurrection Stone. The triangle is the Invisibility Cloak. According to the stories, the witch or wizard who manages to unite all three will become the Master of Death.”

_“The Tale of Three Brothers,”_ Theseus said. “That’s just a children’s story.”

Dumbledore tucked his shield charm back underneath his shirt. “No,” he said quietly. “The Hallows are real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools.”

“Fucking hell,” said Graves. He remembered that story. It had been his dream to find the Resurrection Stone as a boy; it had seemed like a proper knight’s quest, like Arthur’s Grail. He hadn’t given much thought to the other two Hallows.

If Grindelwald became the Master of Death, there would be no stopping him.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Quite. If he succeeds, Gellert will remake the world with an army of Inferi.”

“He won’t,” Graves said.

“You sound so very sure of that,” Dumbledore observed. He sounded more wistful than anything else. “How can you be so sure?”

Graves suspected it had been years since Dumbledore had been that sure of anything. He felt more than he saw Theseus move into place by his side, guarding his back the way he had in the war.

“Because we’re going to stop him,” said Theseus.

“Together,” said Graves.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said slowly. “I rather believe you might.” His voice held a hint of something else. Graves had interviewed enough suspects to recognize what it was. It was a hint of _information being withheld_ with a tinge of relief at having gotten away with whatever it was. He flicked his gaze to Theseus, who looked equal parts stalwart and pissed off. Theseus heard it too.

Dumbledore had been honest about Grindelwald’s motivations. And whatever the information he was withholding was, it wasn’t of life-threatening importance. That tone had a different quality to it.

Dumbledore could keep his secrets. Any man who’d willingly been involved with Gellert Grindelwald likely had plenty. Graves shook his head when Theseus would have pressed further. “Thank you, Professor Dumbledore,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore replied. He hesitated in the doorway, a question clearly on his lips.

If he asked to see Grindelwald, Graves honestly didn’t know what he’d say. He was reasonably certain that just the _sight_ of Albus Dumbledore would be enough to rip Grindelwald’s composure to shreds. He’d be easy prey for Fuchs then.

It might also spur Grindelwald into an escape attempt. Dumbledore might have had a shield charm crafted by Grindelwald’s own magic, but Graves wasn’t sure that would be enough to keep him safe. He couldn’t risk a civilian like that, much less one under the protection of the ICW.

Dumbledore bowed his head and left without a word.

“There’s something he’s not telling us,” Theseus said, once the door had closed behind him. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at Graves.

“I think there’s a lot of things he’s not telling us,” Graves agreed. “He willingly got into bed with _Grindelwald,_ for fuck’s sake. He must have agreed with _some_ of Grindelwald’s rhetoric at some point, before he lost the stomach for it.”

“He knows more about what Grindelwald’s plans are,” Theseus concluded.

“Or were,” Graves said. “Grindelwald might have changed them, after they fell out.” He would have, if only to protect his own interests, but he wasn’t a genocidal psychopath. Who knew what Grindelwald had done?

Theseus swore under his breath. “You should have let me push him. Better we know what we’re up against than not. He’s still wearing Grindelwald’s symbol, for fuck’s sake.”

Graves hesitated. If anyone who knew about Credence’s shield charm passed that information to someone else, cold blooded murder would be the least of what Graves was willing to do to rectify that.

  
Shield charms worked best through anonymity. If people knew you had one, they could find a way around it.

Theseus deserved to know, though. If Dumbledore was less fragile – less _broken_ – than he seemed, then he might still be a threat.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

Theseus raised his eyebrows at him. “How d’you figure?”

“It’s not a love token. It’s a shield charm.”

“Buggering shit,” said Theseus. “Really?”

“Bet you the next watch it is,” Graves said.

“Neither of us are on watch anymore,” Theseus pointed out. “Percival. Are you sure?”

Fuck. He was right. It was too easy to fall into old habits with Theseus. They weren’t at war anymore.

Not yet, at any rate. Not unless Grindelwald got his way.

“Yeah,” said Graves. “Grindelwald had one too.” He grimaced. “Found that out the hard way. Should’ve hit him with _incarcerus_ first, but I wanted to hurt him.”

“Merlin’s bloody balls,” said Theseus. “Do you know how dangerous those are to make?”

Did he ever. Not that Graves was going to mention that; he wouldn’t risk Credence’s safety by telling someone else he had a shield charm. Not even if that someone else was Theseus.  
“Guess it really must have been love,” he said lightly.

“Fucking hell,” said Theseus. “Does this get less disturbing, the longer you know about it?” he demanded. “You seem fairly calm. It’s unnerving. I expected more snarling.”

Graves thought about his sessions with Grindelwald. He was fairly certain Theseus was going to share Hughes’ opinion of them.

“Yes and no,” he said. “It doesn’t get less disturbing, but it gets easier to plan around. It helps that I know I can’t break Grindelwald. Not without becoming just like him and torturing an unarmed prisoner. Dumbledore, though …”

Dumbledore was half-broken already. He’d done it to himself, or maybe Grindelwald had. There were some things you couldn’t come back from. Whatever they’d shared might be one of them.

“You could break him, if you had to,” Theseus said. His hazel eyes were cold as ice; that was Captain Scamander. Maybe Director Scamander, too. Theseus knew what it was to make hard choices.

“If I had to,” Graves said.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Theseus said grimly. “I’d like to be able to pretend we’re still on the side of the angels.”

“Our side is the one opposing Gellert fucking Grindelwald,” said Graves. “For now, that’s good enough.”

 

*

 

Queenie was the first one to arrive home, toeing off her heels and tucking herself into Jacob’s side. Credence watched her exchange soft murmurs with Jacob, who ushered her into the back garden with a promise of fresh hot chocolate.

The ingredients for proper hot chocolate had been the first purely frivolous thing Credence had ever bought, outside of things for the baby which everyone else said were necessities. He was not giving hot chocolate up, not now that he’d discovered it. Jacob, to the surprise of exactly no one, made excellent hot chocolate. It was better than the Library’s, although Dorothy had made him swear never to tell the Library that, for fear of hurting the Library’s feelings.

“I was a little afraid of him, at first,” Dorothy confessed, once Jacob had retreated outside to join Queenie.

Credence stared at her, incredulous. He couldn’t imagine anyone being afraid of _Jacob_. Jacob was the kindest, gentlest man he’d ever met, aside from Newt.

“I don’t know that many No-Maj’s,” Dorothy said, a little defensively. “And Rappaport’s Law – well. It was silly of me. Jacob Kowalski doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, and he sure doesn’t need magic to bake. I’m glad we’re friends now, even if we are breaking the law.”

“Tina and I are going to change that,” Credence said. “It’s a stupid law.”

Dorothy blinked.

“It is,” Credence insisted. “It’s stupid to be afraid of people because they’re different. And it’s not right, that we ask No-Maj born wizards to choose between our world and their families. Because then you get people like me and my sister who fall through the cracks. I don’t want what happened to my sister to happen to anyone else.”

“What happened to your sister?”

“She was the Obscurial. She was eight.”

“The Obscurial? I thought the Obscurial died when Grindelwald was captured.”

“She did,” Credence said. The words hurt. He hated the way that everyone said _the Obscurial_ like Modesty had never been a person at all.

Dorothy burst into tears.

Credence pulled her into a hug because he wasn’t sure what else to do.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Dorothy warbled. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a watering pot.” She made a vague gesture in the direction of her belly, and Credence realized what she meant. He remembered not being able to stop crying, those awful two weeks Percival had been unconscious, and how much he’d hated not being in control of his own body.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You should be the one crying, not me, I just –”

“Hush,” he said, rocking back and forth the way he would have if she were Modesty and needed comfort. “I know. It’s alright.”

Dorothy sniffled. “Can I help?” she asked, blotting her face dry with a kitchen towel. “Eight’s too young to – I want to help you change things.”

“Yes,” said Credence. He felt a tiny kick inside, as if the baby were offering to help too. It was a real kick, not just the flutter of butterfly wings he'd grown used to.

“I felt that,” Dorothy said, her hand automatically reaching for the place the baby had kicked.

“He’s been more active lately,” Credence said. “That’s the first time anyone else has been able to feel him, though.” He smiled. “Percival’s going to be over the moon.”

Dorothy giggled, slightly watery but already in better spirits. “He won’t be able to keep his hands off of you.”

Credence snorted. “He already has that problem,” he said, unthinking.

“Credence Graves!” said Dorothy, faux scandalized.

Credence blushed. “I didn’t mean it like _that!”_

“Yes, you did!” Dorothy grinned at him. “Does he _really?”_

“Um,” said Credence, and very carefully did not think of Percival naked in the kitchen he and Dorothy were currently standing in. “He’s very …” He groped for a word that wasn’t completely scandalous. “Attentive.”

Dorothy’s expression suggested he had failed miserably at finding a non-scandalous word, and also that she did not actually mind. It felt, Credence thought, like sisterly teasing.

He’d never had a sister tease him before. It was nice, in a mortifying sort of way.

“Can we please make dinner?” Credence begged. “Before everyone else gets home?”

“Oh, fine,” said Dorothy. “Spoilsport.”

 

*

 

Tina and Alex Collins were the next to arrive. Alex went to the kitchen, looking for Dorothy. Tina made a beeline for Newt’s case, muttering something about dragging him out before both of the Directors got home. Ten minutes later, unholy yowling emerged from the case. Credence honestly couldn’t tell if it was coming from Newt or one of his creatures.

“That’s Newt,” Queenie told him, listening very intently.

“Are they …” Jacob made a vague hand gesture Credence suspected meant ‘consummating their very peculiar and argumentative courtship.’

“No!” Queenie said, glowering at both of them. And then, “Er.” She stuck her head into Newt’s suitcase. “Teenie!” she hollered. “I can _hear_ you!”

_“Everyone_ can hear _you,”_ Tina hollered back. “Mind your own beeswax!”

“Legilimens!” Queenie reminded her, and got a shriek of sororal frustration in return.

Tina emerged from the case a few minutes later, red-faced and dripping wet. “I swear, it’d be easier to give the Nundu a bath.” She noticed that everyone was staring at her. “What?” she asked, defensive. “I’d want to be presentable if I hadn’t seen my brother in almost a year.” She charmed her clothing dry with a flick of her wand.

“You met him?” Jacob asked. “Newt’s brother?”

“At the docks, with the rest of the delegation. He’s not on the delegation, but he was there. He’s head of security.”

“What’s he like?” Jacob asked, but what he meant was, _do we need to run interference?_

Tina shrugged. “He spent most of the day with Graves; I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I don’t have the seniority.” That was Tina for _probably not, but let’s keep an eye on him._

“Alright,” said Jacob.

Credence was not one hundred percent convinced he had not just watched the two of them agree to murder Theseus if he upset Newt. He supposed, all things considered, that if Theseus upset Newt he’d probably help, even if Theseus had been one of Percival’s comrades-in-arms.

Newt was _Credence’s_ comrade-in-arms, and no one was allowed to upset him.

“Oh, honey,” said Queenie. “You need to spend less time with Director Graves, you’re starting to problem solve like he does. So do you, Teenie. He’s been a terrible influence on you.”

Tina made a face at her.

“That’s not an excuse,” Queenie said, answering whatever thought Tina hadn’t spoken aloud.

“Um,” Newt said, cautiously sticking his head out of his case. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine!” said Tina. “Are you coming out of there or not?”

“I haven’t decided,” said Newt. “It seems safer in here, to be honest.”

Tina made an impatient noise and dragged Newt out of his case. “Queenie,” she said, looking down at Newt. “ _Help_.”

Queenie _tsked_ , but she knelt next to Newt and tapped the shoulder of his blue coat with her wand. Credence reached for the shape of the tailoring spell with his mind, trying to memorize the way it felt. The color of the coat brightened, becoming newer while he watched as the dust and wear vanished. Newt’s sturdy, serviceable trousers and carefully mended waistcoat got the same treatment.

Credence thought he might be able to cast the tailoring spell now. He’d have to practice on something it wouldn’t be costly to replace. Maybe a dish towel would work.

Newt got to his feet, inspecting his clothes. “I don’t think this was really necessary, but thank you,” he said.

“Your hair’s a mess,” Tina sighed, running her fingers through it in an attempt to neaten it. Newt leaned into her touch with a soft, pleased sigh.

Credence looked away, not wanting to intrude on their intimacy.

“What about me?” Jacob asked. “Don’t I need prettying up?”

“Of course not,” said Queenie. “You’re perfect.” But she freshened up his suit anyway.

Credence smiled. He was in love and his friends were in love and everything was perfect, really. The only thing that would make it better was Percival himself, who stepped through their front door a moment later as though Credence’s longing had summoned him.

“Percival,” Credence breathed, tilting his face up for a kiss.

Percival obliged, his mouth reverent and lingering. For a second, nothing in the world existed except the two of them, the careful slide of Percival’s mouth over his own. Credence could have kissed him forever.

Someone cleared their throat a little pointedly, and Percival pulled away. He was, Credence realized with slowly dawning horror, making an obscene gesture at the other wizard with one hand.

“Oh my God, _Percival,”_ he said, clawing at Percival’s arm in an effort to make him stop.

The other wizard snorted with laughter. “It’s alright,” he told Credence. “That’s actually fairly restrained, for Percival. Theseus Scamander, at your service.”

“Credence Graves,” said Credence, shaking Theseus’ offered hand.

Theseus was handsome, which Credence was coming to think of as the norm for wizards. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was the same gingery-brown as Newt’s, although his was more neatly shorn. He had Newt’s eyes, too, hazel and warm. His bearing reminded Credence of Percival; strong and sure, as though mountains would crumble to dust and yield before he did. Theseus Scamander carried himself like a warrior and held his head up like a king.

For a second, Credence let himself imagine both of them in the armor from Lance’s storybook, Arthur and Lancelot reborn.

He could not see himself as Guinevere, though, and he let the image fade.

“And you,” Theseus said to Newt. “What the _hell_ were you _thinking?_ You got a Muggle implicated in _two separate robberies.”_

“You can’t get mad at a niffler for being true to his nature,” Newt shot back. “And Cecil is a decent fellow, for all his mischief.”

“Merlin, grant me patience,” Theseus groaned. “Your creatures were all over the city. Do you have any idea what Mother’s going to say when she finds out about this?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Newt, attempting to look innocent. It wasn’t working very well.

“Of course you don’t. She won’t blame _you. I_ , on the other hand, will be lucky if she’s not using my guts for garters.” Theseus threw his hands up in the air for emphasis. “I’ve no idea why she thinks _I_ can control anything you do. I gave up on that when you were _five.”_

Percival snorted with quiet laughter. “I forgot how dramatic Theseus can be,” he murmured. “Come on. Goldstein will hex Theseus if she thinks he’s out of line. There’s no need for us to stand around and listen.”

“Are you sure?” Credence asked, because Theseus had Newt in a headlock and was destroying Tina’s efforts at neatening his hair. Tina’s expression did not bode well for Theseus.

“Absolutely. Theseus used to do this a lot during the war. And if Theseus can survive a dragon taking umbrage at the way he’s manhandling Newt, he can survive anything.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Credence said. “Not against Tina.”

“Fair point,” said Percival. He stopped short at the sight of Dorothy and Alex. He clearly hadn’t expected there to be anyone in their kitchen, since everyone else was watching the show in the living room. And Dorothy and Alex just as clearly hadn’t expected anyone else, because they were mid-kiss and clearly mortified.

“Um,” said Dorothy.

“Sir,” said Alex, turning an alarming shade of red.

Percival made a plaintive noise. “Collins, what you do in your off hours is none of my business. Even if it is in my kitchen.” That last bit was muttered quietly enough that they could all pretend the noise from the living room drowned it out.

“Percival, can you help me set the table?” Credence asked, to give poor Dorothy and Alex time to recover.

“Of course,” said Percival, gamely playing along. He slanted a look at Credence. “Are you sure you want more than one?” he asked.

Credence blinked. “More than one what?”

“Child,” said Percival. “In the hospital, you mentioned _next time.”_ He waved a hand in the general direction of the living room. Queenie was scolding Tina for hexing Theseus, who was protesting that he had it coming while Newt crooned soothingly at some upset creature. “It’ll be a lot like this.” He smiled crookedly. “Hopefully without the menagerie.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He _had_ mentioned that, hadn’t he? He hadn’t meant to; it was greedy to want more than what he had.

It was alright to be greedy with Percival, though.

“Yes,” he said, because he did.

“Really?” asked Percival, startled but oh so pleased. “You haven’t exactly had an easy time of it.”

Credence rolled his eyes and grabbed Percival’s hand, resting it against the spot their son was still kicking, as though all the excitement in the house was exciting for him too. Maybe it was, because he hadn’t stopped kicking off and on for the last half hour. What was a bit of inconvenient vomiting and swollen ankles and backaches in comparison to a child? Especially _their_ child: a little person that he and Percival had made together.

“Oh,” said Percival, stunned. “I thought I was imagining it when I felt him before, but – that’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Credence said, laughing a little.

“Oh,” Percival said again, cupping Credence’s face in his hands and pressing ecstatic kisses to his lips. “Oh, Credence.”

“Kitchen,” Credence said, in between kisses. “We’re in the _kitchen,_ Percival.”

“I really don’t care,” said Percival. “Besides, Collins will keep everyone out.”

Credence looked over Percival’s shoulder. The kitchen was empty. Dorothy and Alex must have fled once the conversation turned private.

“I’d rather send everyone home, sir,” Alex said plaintively. “Standing guard while you canoodle in the kitchen is _not_ in my job description.” There was a muffled thump, as if someone had punched him. “Ow!”

“There will be no canoodling!” Credence said firmly, pushing Percival back a little.

“It’s my fucking kitchen,” grumbled Percival. “I should be able to canoodle in it if I want to.”

“You’ll be canoodling in it by yourself, then,” Credence informed him.

Percival looked intrigued. “Would you be watching?”

“Why would I – Oh my _God_. Apples,” Credence hissed at him. He could only think about – or _not_ think about – apples for so long in an effort to not traumatize Queenie with the details about her boss’s sex life. He wasn’t very good at building walls yet.

“Right,” Percival sighed, and went to fetch the rest of their friends for dinner.

 

*

 

Dinner was illuminating. Theseus was charming and funny, loud where Newt was quiet, but just as kind as his brother in his own ways. Best of all, he had an endless stream of Percival stories from the war, and he was absolutely ruthless about embarrassing Percival with them.

“Normally, the procedure for grenades was to _wingardium leviosa_ them out of range, so the blast didn’t hurt anyone, but we were still pretending to be Muggles so there’s this moment where we’re just _staring_ at each other like a bunch of idiots, and then Percival decides to _fall on the fucking grenade_ like the giant, self-sacrificing arse he is,” Theseus said, glowering at Percival.

“Oh my God,” Credence moaned. “ _Percival_. You could have been _killed_.” It was one thing to hear about Percival’s ridiculous naked teenage exploits, but stories about Percival’s awful self-sacrificing streak did horrible things to his blood pressure. He could have lost Percival a hundred times over before he’d ever gotten the chance to meet him.

“I’m a wizard,” Percival grumbled. “I was going to charm it useless and laugh it off as a dud. And I _would_ have, if _someone_ hadn’t panicked and turned the fucking thing into a pineapple.”

“A pineapple,” Tina repeated doubtfully.

“German grenades look kinda like a pineapple,” Jacob explained. “It’s what we called ‘em, anyway. Pineapple grenades.”

Theseus nodded. “Except Merak’s always been a bit pants at transfigurations, so while he managed to turn it into a pineapple, he also managed to leave the explosive bits. So of course it goes off, and there’s Percival on the ground, covered head to toe in pineapple bits and looking absolutely _murderous_. He smelled like pineapple for a _week_.”

“Whereas the rest of you smelled fresh like spring daisies,” Percival shot back. “The pineapple was an improvement.”

“What about the No-Maj’s?” Tina asked.

“Oh, we had to Obliviate the lot of them. Honestly, we’d have been better off just following the standard procedure,” Theseus said ruefully. “They thought it was bloody weird that Percival smelled like pineapple, since they couldn’t remember _why_ he did, and one of them landed him with Pineapples as a nickname. Because he smelled like pineapple, and also they’re a bit prickly. Kind of like Percival. It was honestly an improvement, since they were _mostly_ referring to him as ‘that American prick’ before that,” Theseus concluded.

“If anyone – and I do mean _anyone_ – calls me Pineapples at work I will punch them in the mouth,” Percival said, mouth twitching up at the corners. He was more pleased than embarrassed by the story, Credence thought.

“Can _I_ call you Pineapples?” Credence teased.

Percival gave him a wounded look. “I’ll answer to anything you want to call me, but not that.”

Credence laughed. “I wouldn’t,” he reassured Percival. Mostly because it was ridiculous, and he couldn’t imagine calling Percival Pineapples under any circumstances. Percival was _Percival_.

“How come you spent so much time with No-Maj units?” Jacob asked. “I thought wizards fought with magic.”

Theseus and Percival exchanged a look. “It was our war too,” Theseus said. “We wanted to defend our homes just like everyone else. We went where the fighting was. Sometimes that meant going Muggle and fighting with Muggle weapons. Firing a gun isn’t all that different from dueling, really. Although no one took to guns quite like Percival did.” Theseus’ expression suggested he thought Percival was a little crazy for that.

“I’m a Graves,” Percival reminded him, as if that explained everything. Credence rather thought it did. A proper Graves fought by whatever means were necessary, whether that was a wand or his fists. It made sense that Percival would learn to fight with ordinary weapons too.

“Huh,” said Jacob. “So does that disarming spell work on guns, too?”

“Absolutely,” said Theseus.

“Although if the person you’re disarming has their finger on the trigger, there’s still the risk of accidental discharge. The disarming spell is less precise than it could be,” Percival added. “If I still had my service pistol, I could show you.”

“You could use mine,” Jacob offered.

Percival blinked.

Jacob caught his startled expression and laughed. “What, you thought I was just going to stand around and be useless if that evil wizard went after Credence?” he asked. “I might not be able to do magic, but I can still fight.”

“You’re a man of unexpected depths,” Percival told him. “Sure, why not?”

“I think we’ll bow out of this one, sir,” Alex said. “I don’t want guns going off anywhere _near_ my wife.”

Dorothy looked a bit like she wanted to protest. So did Credence. Percival would never let anyone under his protection come to harm. It was insulting to think that he would ever be so careless. Alex had fought at Percival’s side; he ought to know better.

Percival inclined his head. “Of course,” he said. He looked at Jacob apologetically. “Perhaps some other time?” he suggested.

“Sure,” Jacob said.

Theseus sighed. “I should be getting back to the hotel. Gaarder will want a word. It was lovely to meet everyone. Newt, please _try_ to stay out of trouble.”

“I never go looking for trouble,” Newt pointed out, very reasonably.

“And yet it always seems to find you,” Theseus sighed.

“It really does,” Tina agreed, but her voice was fond.

Theseus noticed, if the pleased gleam in his eyes was any indicator. Credence suspected a discussion about the line of succession was in Newt and Tina’s future after all.

Percival caught Theseus’ expression too. “Let me walk you out,” he suggested. He clearly intended to have a word with Theseus about bothering Tina and Newt.

Credence smiled. Percival was going to be an _amazing_ father, if the way he looked after his team was any indicator.

Queenie beamed at him. “You are too,” she told him.

“I hope so,” Credence said.

 

*

 

“I have something for you,” Percival said.

Credence paused halfway through buttoning up his pajama top. “What is it?” he asked.

Percival pulled a flat, crushed velvet box from his greatcoat, which he’d insisted on storing in their bedroom rather than the downstairs closet where it was usually kept. “A symbol of gratitude,” he said. “And honor.” He opened the box and pulled out a slender silver circlet dotted with sapphires, which he placed on Credence’s head.

A crown, Credence realized. Like the one in Lance’s storybook.

“Our family has not always been wealthy,” Percival told him. “So we have not always been able to honor those who bring new blood into the family as we should, but the tradition is an old one. Legend has it that Geraint Graves – the _first_ Geraint Graves, not my father; the first descendant of the Graves family to follow old Gondulphus into MACUSA’s service – wove a crown of forget-me-nots for his wife’s hair on the day they wed, and that she put them under a _preservatus_ charm and wore them on special occasions for all the rest of her days.

“His son, Edric, gave his wife a crown of roses made from silk, and a silver locket so that she could carry proof of their love with her always. And so the tradition continued, passed down through the generations until today.”

Percival pulled a silver bracelet out next, fastening it around Credence’s left wrist. It was a simple chain with large, flat links and a trefoil knot at the clasp. The links were heavy and cold against his skin.

It must have been worth a fortune.

“Jewels aren’t quite the same as a crown of flowers,” Credence observed.

That got him one of Percival’s rare crooked grins, boyish and genuine. “Well,” he said. “I like to think we’ve improved upon the tradition, some.”

Credence laughed at him. “You would,” he said fondly. Percival hadn’t even blinked at the amount of money Credence spent on the baby. He suspected Percival – and Dindrane, if Dindrane’s shopping spree was any indicator – did not have the same relationship with money as the rest of the world.

Still. As extravagant as the gift was, he liked the thought of being part of a tradition. That he was part of Percival’s family now and forever.

Percival grinned again and leaned in for a kiss, careful and slow and devouring. He kissed like they had all the time in the world to enjoy one another, until Credence was breathless and half-drunk with it. He raised Credence’s left hand and kissed his scars, sliding a ring onto Credence’s ring finger, still warm from where it had been hidden in his hand.

“Oh,” he said, staring down at Credence’s hand. “My Credence,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction.

“Yes,” said Credence. The ring had a large oval sapphire set into it, but was otherwise less ostentatious than he suspected Percival would have preferred. He liked the look of it on his hand, a sign that he was Percival’s for all the world to see. He suspected Percival liked it for the exact same reason.

“Is there one for you?” he asked, not sure whether he hoped the answer was yes or no. Part of him wanted to pick a ring of his own out, and the rest of him liked the thought of a matching ring; that Percival would brand himself as Credence’s for all the world to see. He looked at the faint lingering mark that he’d left on Percival’s throat. A ring was like that, but forever.

Percival reached back into the velvet box and offered Credence a ring exactly like the one Credence was now wearing. Credence took it and slid it onto Percival’s finger, admiring the contrast of silver against Percival’s skin.

Mine, thought Credence. He tilted his head up for a kiss. “Take me to bed, Percival,” he commanded.

Percival’s expression went dark and pleased. “Yes, dear,” he purred.

 

*

 

Graves had learned, over their brief cohabitation, that Jacob kept a baker’s hours and rose well before dawn to prepare pastries for the day. Newt kept similarly odd hours, rising with the sun to tend to his creatures. Jacob usually wandered into the case to help him, so breakfast was a quiet affair, just for Graves and Credence.

Graves liked the quiet. “You’ve been busy,” he observed, pressing a kiss to the side of Credence’s head as he got up to fetch more coffee.

Credence smiled, pleased with himself. “Idle hands are the devil’s play,” he said.

“Did you really write to Seraphina and ask her to introduce you to Grandmama Genevieve?” Graves asked, dropping back into his chair.

Credence looked affronted. “Of course not,” he said. “That would be terribly rude. I wrote her to thank her for coming to dinner and telling me stories about you. I might have _mentioned_ that you spoke very highly of her grandmother and that her grandmother sounded like a very capable woman, but I didn’t ask her for _favors_.”

Graves stifled a smile. Credence really had nothing to worry about where wizarding manners were concerned, but it was sweet that he worried. “You could, you know. Seraphina likes you.”

“She’s the magical president! And your best friend!” Credence pointed out. Graves honestly wasn’t certain which of those two titles was the more intimidating one in Credence’s eyes. “She’s an important woman. She’s probably too busy for favors.”

“That’s broadly true,” Graves acknowledged. “But you’re family. She’ll always make exceptions for family.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He looked down at his rings, a pleased blush rising on his cheeks.

“Grandmama Genevieve wants to meet you too,” Graves told him. “So does Violetta Beauvais; she’s one of Grandmama Genevieve’s coven,” he explained. “She’s also a wandmaker. She made Seraphina’s wand. You might try one, when you visit, and see if it suits.”

“Are we going to visit them?” Credence asked. “It would have to wait, wouldn’t it? Now that the delegation’s here, you’ll need to deal with them.”

“Er,” said Graves. “Actually, Seraphina was hoping you’d be willing to visit Grandmama Genevieve without me. She wants Ramirez to escort you.”

Credence frowned. “Who is Ramirez?”

Graves suppressed his immediate flippant response, because while telling Credence that Ramirez was Seraphina’s personal hitwizard was broadly accurate, it didn’t explain things very well.

“Marco Ramirez is Seraphina’s personal secretary,” he said, because that was accurate too. “He functions as a specialist, for the most part. He handles problems on Seraphina’s behalf before they have a chance to come to her attention. He’s also appointed himself her bodyguard, and he’s very good at what he does. He would keep you safe.”

“Do you trust him?” Credence asked.

“Yes,” Graves said. “I trust him with Seraphina’s life.”

“And Seraphina’s life is more important to you than yours,” Credence pointed out. “Which means you trust him a lot.” He said it matter-of-factly, without a hint of censure.

Graves winced, because he was right. “No one’s life is more important to me than yours,” he pointed out. “And his.”

Credence smiled. “I know,” he told Graves, utterly confident in the strength of Graves’ devotion. “If you trust him, then I’d be happy to have him escort me to meet Grandmama Genevieve.”

Credence, Graves suspected, was going to take the wizarding world by storm once he really got started. He was exquisite and powerful and entirely innocent of how good confidence looked on him. He was stunning.

Mine, he thought, dropping his gaze to Credence’s ring. That was his ring on Credence’s finger; his child in Credence’s belly. Credence was his, and he was Credence’s.

Credence caught him looking and smiled, looking down at his ring to admire it. “I like it,” he said, quiet but sincere. “I like being part of your traditions.”

“It’s a good one, as traditions go,” Graves said. The bridegifts had existed nearly as long as the Graves line had; everyone who was anyone in wizarding America knew what it meant. It was a symbol of gratitude and honor, yes, but it was also a warning: if anyone hurt Credence, the Graves family would come to his defense. They didn’t have the numbers they once had – it was just Graves and Dindrane and a couple distant cousins – but the threat of their wrath would keep Credence safe.

It nearly hadn’t, though. Wilkinson had been willing to hurt Credence in order to hurt Graves.

Graves wasn’t entirely certain how to fix that. He suspected a reminder of what he was capable of – that he was Percival fucking Graves, to quote Hughes – wouldn’t be overly helpful. Wilkinson had known what Graves was capable of and hadn’t cared.

_You’re not well-liked among the other eleven families_ , he’d said, throwing it in Graves’ face like a schoolyard taunt.

Maybe it was time to do something about that.

They were the descendants of the Twelve. That ought to mean something. Graves did not want to see his family – or any family in the Twelve – trade on their bloodline like one of Europe’s purebloods rather than their deeds. Wilkinson had forgotten that, if he’d ever known it at all. He could have had a life of honorable service, healing the sick and the wounded. It was a good way to serve their people.

He’d chosen otherwise.

Helmine Weiss hadn’t. She didn’t like Graves – possibly for the same reasons Wilkinson hadn’t; because she thought that _he_ thought he was better than her – but he thought he had her respect.

Helmine Weiss was a good place to start.

“What are you thinking about?” Credence asked.

Graves considered that, trying to distill his thoughts into something coherent. “Tradition,” he said. “What about you?” He luxuriated in having a quiet moment with Credence; in being able to ask such simple questions.

“I was planning my day,” Credence said.

“What are you going to do?” Graves asked.

“I thought I’d start with some reading on Rappaport’s Law,” Credence said. “I’m nearly finished with the books Tina gave me. If Dorothy stops by, I’ll ask her to take me to the Library so I can ask the Library for new ones. If she doesn’t, I’ll probably ask Newt for more dueling lessons.”

“Newt’s teaching you how to duel?” Graves had wanted to teach Credence that, although he had to admit that Credence needed the knowledge sooner rather than later.

“Dindrane helped too,” Credence said. “She taught me _incarcerus_. She said it’s the first spell any Graves learns to do, when they’re learning to fight.”

“She’s right,” Graves said. He passed Credence his wand. “Show me?”

“Right here? In the kitchen?”

“It’s not an especially dangerous spell,” Graves pointed out. “And it’s not as though you don’t have the power to repair the kitchen if anything should happen to it.”

Credence considered that. “Alright,” he said. “ _Incarcerus_.” His voice was firm and his wandwork was textbook perfect. Graves felt his arms pulled behind his back as the spell immobilized them.

“Very good,” Graves said approvingly. He squashed his reflexive urge to cast _finite incantatem_ , because Credence needed the practice and the encouragement more than he needed to be free. “Can you get me out of these?”

“ _Finite incantatem_ ,” said Credence. He passed Graves his wand back as soon as Graves’ arms were free.

“Very well done,” Graves told him. “Your form is perfect.”

Credence glowed under the praise. “I’m just doing what I was taught,” he demurred.

“And you do it well,” Graves said. “That’s not a small thing, Credence. You’re extraordinary.”

“And you’re going to be late for work,” Credence countered. “Take some pastries with you. Jacob made too many.”

Graves had never been the sort of person who brought in homemade food for his coworkers. He’d taken his team out for dinner, of course, in groups and one on one - generally as an apology for being a complete bastard, although sometimes as a reward, or to do a spot of mentoring. He made a mental note to take Goldstein for dinner sometime soon; if he was going to mentor her, he might as well do it properly.

He made a second mental note to do so _after_ his interview with the _Ghost_ , lest Donaldson and his lackeys try to spin it so that Goldstein was his mistress, or something equally vile.

“If you leave them here, they’ll go stale. That’s wasteful,” Credence said. His tone suggested that wasting food was both wrong and unthinkable: a crime on par with everything else Grindelwald had done.

Fuck. Grindelwald. No wonder Credence felt so strongly about wasting food. He’d spent too much time watching Graves starve himself on half-rations to ever feel comfortable with waste. Graves still wasn’t up to fighting weight, despite Credence and Dorothy and Jacob’s best efforts.

“Alright,” Graves said, conjuring up a pastry box. He’d never been the sort of person to bring in homemade food for his coworkers before Credence, but he was willing to become one for Credence’s sake.

He’d even bring one to Weiss. He didn’t like her, but he respected her professionally and he needed allies among the Twelve.

He’d spent his whole life defending MACUSA, trying to keep his people safe. He’d likely keep doing that until the day he died.

But he wanted a better legacy for his son than that. He wanted to build something instead, the way that Credence was building his support network/extended family.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he promised. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

Credence snorted. “I think that’s my line,” he said dryly.

Graves did not have the words to describe how much he loved Credence in that moment, so he kissed him instead. He Apparated to work, smiling faintly. He was careful to strip the smile away when he walked into the Woolworth Building. It was time to be the Director of Magical Security.

He was not expecting to find Donaldson seething in his office, accompanied by a bottle blonde Graves suspected was Adrienne Gallagher. He felt his lips pull back in a wampus cat’s hunting smile at the sight of her.

“Hello, Donaldson,” he said. “What can I do for you?”


	21. Chapter 21

“You’re a liar and a damned welcher, Graves,” Donaldson snarled. “You said you wouldn’t let anyone interview Barebone.”

Graves sighed. He did not have the time to deal with Donaldson’s crazy right now. Unfortunately, telling Donaldson that would only make him ask why, and the _last_ thing he needed was the fucking _Ghost_ leaking details of the ICW’s investigation.

“I said no such thing,” Graves said firmly. “I told you that Credence was off limits. I told you that your people weren’t to smear his name, harass him or his friends in the streets or make insinuations about his condition.” He cut his gaze over to Gallagher at that. She didn’t flinch. “You agreed to my terms.”

“In exchange for an interview!” Donaldson yelled. “Which you have not given, and frankly, I’m not sure why I should live up to my side of the bargain if you won’t live up to yours.”

Graves’ fingers itched. He really wanted to break Donaldson’s nose again. It would be so cathartic, and no one who knew Donaldson could say the man didn’t have it coming.

The temporary catharsis wasn’t worth being made an oathbreaker. He’d promised Seraphina not to brawl with the press when she made him Director of Magical Security. Graves kept his promises.

“My terms still stand,” he said. “I’m willing to give you an interview – a _full_ interview, no matter how invasive or inappropriate your questions – if you keep your people away from my fiancé.”

Donaldson banged his fists on Graves’ desk. “That’s not good enough! You let Barebone talk to that little bitch from _Moment_ magazine. Oh yes,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I know about that. I’ve half a mind to print the article myself.”

Graves leaned back in his chair and eyed Donaldson with a predatory smirk.

“What?” Donaldson demanded. “Say something, damn you!”

Graves lunged forward, slamming his hands on his desk and letting his power flood the office. Donaldson flinched back, almost tripping over the visitor’s chair. Gallagher staggered halfway to the door before she caught herself.

“Sit down,” Graves commanded. “Stop shouting and keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Verity MacDuff is one of the Twelve, and she’s served our people with the truth her whole career. That’s more than I can say for you. You will _not_ refer to her as ‘that little bitch’ in my presence. Also, do you realize you just threatened to steal from _Moment_ magazine in front of the _Head of Magical Law Enforcement?”_ He could tell from the way Donaldson’s face went ashen that he hadn’t. Bullies very rarely considered the consequences. 

Donaldson sat. He narrowed his eyes at Graves again, but he stopped shouting. “Was that a threat?”

Graves sat back down again, smoothing down his tie. “I don’t make threats, Donaldson,” he said. “That was a reminder.”

“Of?” Gallagher asked quietly. Her voice was a seductive contralto; Graves suspected plenty of men would offer up any number of secrets to have Gallagher whisper filthy promises in return.

Graves smiled at her. “Ask your boss.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Are you interviewing me?” Graves inquired, genuinely curious. An interview with Gallagher might be entertaining. He’d already seen her claws; she hadn’t seen his.

“I’d like to,” Gallagher said. “Name a time and place.”

Graves glanced at Donaldson. “Would that be acceptable?” Donaldson was the editor-in-chief. He also owned a majority of the _New York Ghost._ He didn’t conduct his own interviews, which was probably the only thing that gave the _Ghost_ even a faint veneer of respectability. Donaldson’s idea of “real news” was a joke.

“The interview takes place _today,”_ Donaldson said. “Or I tell my people Barebone is fair game.”

Graves snarled at the threat, swallowing down his angry retort. Donaldson and Gallagher didn’t need to know that the last two wizards to threaten Credence were in prison; taken out of context it sounded like a blatant misuse of his authority. He could practically see the headlines. GRAVES WRONGFULLY IMPRISONS BABY PAPA DETRACTORS. Or possibly GRAVES WRONGFULLY IMPRISONS BABY MAMA DETRACTORS. The _New York Ghost_ was not exactly known for sensitivity, tact, or accurate reporting.

“Fine,” he said. “Tonight. Seven-thirty. The Luminaria.” He might as well kill two birds with one stone. He needed to talk to Bellamy about taking Credence to dinner at the Luminaria. He hadn’t forgotten his promise to order one of everything on the menu so Credence could figure out what he liked, even if Dorothy and Jacob were doing a perfectly fine job of expanding Credence’s culinary horizons. He wanted to spoil Credence just because he could.

And if wizarding America got a glimpse of Credence with Graves’ bridegift on his hands and at his wrists, well, so much the better.

Gallagher arched a dark eyebrow at him. “Is this an interview or a date, Director Graves?” she purred.

Graves gave her a quelling look. Better witches than Adrienne Gallagher had tried to honeytrap him before. It hadn’t worked when he was young and stupid and prone to thinking with his dick; it _definitely_ wasn’t going to work now, not when he had Credence to come home to. Credence was worth a thousand Adrienne Gallaghers. “An interview.”

She pouted at him. Her lips were full and very red. Graves wondered absently if she’d put some sort of charm on her lipstick; there was no reason for him to notice her lips. He had absolutely no interest in Gallagher, if you discounted his very pressing desire to wring her neck for writing such libelous things about Credence.

“I trust you’ll conduct yourself as a professional,” Graves said.

“Of course,” she purred.

“Excellent. Get the hell out of my office.”

 

*

 

Percival sent a pigeon saying that he wouldn’t be home for dinner less than an hour after he left for work. He was meeting a reporter from the _Ghost_ for the interview he’d promised, because the _Ghost_ had caught wind of Credence’s interview with Verity MacDuff.

It was not, Credence felt, an auspicious way to start the day. He set Percival’s note on fire as soon as Percival mentioned the _Ghost,_ his magic echoing Percival’s reflexive rage.

The _Ghost_ wanted to scoop _Moment_ magazine. Verity had mentioned that the new issue of _Moment_ that included his interview would be released on Monday. The Ghost was probably hoping to beat them to the punch with a special weekend edition. They couldn’t get an interview with Credence, but they could muddy the waters with their own warped version of the truth. Credence had no trouble reading between _those_ lines, thank you very much.

Newt and Jacob were still down in Newt’s case. Credence brewed a cup of tea, more for the soothing familiarity of the ritual than out of any desire for tea. (Some days, even _looking_ at a cup of tea resulted in the immediate urge to use the bathroom. Credence really wished _Expecting the Unexpected_ had been wrong about that.)

Percival’s note included where and when his dinner meeting would take place. Seven-thirty at the Luminaria, the restaurant he hoped to take Credence to.

It was also owned by the Bluebird’s husband, who acted as the head chef.

Credence tapped a considering finger against the kitchen table, weighing his options. The Bluebird had said that her door would always be open to him if he had questions, but he did not think she meant this one.

Still. If he didn’t ask, he’d never get anything. He wouldn’t have dared to ask before, but Percival had taught him that it was alright to ask for things. That it was not only allowed but encouraged.

He sent Asher the pigeon to St. Brigid’s hospital. Then he went and got one of the books on wizarding high society etiquette Dindrane had brought him. 

When Newt and Jacob finally emerged from the case, Credence was reasonably certain that he wouldn’t embarrass himself in a formal setting. He returned the dishes he’d set out to practice with to the cabinets and grinned.

“Oh boy,” said Jacob. “Are we in trouble? You look like we’re in trouble.”

“Of course you’re not in trouble,” Credence said, baffled.

Jacob did not seem convinced. “You sure? Because you’re wearing a dead ringer for my ma’s _someone’s gonna get it look,_ so _someone’s_ gotta be in trouble.”

Credence wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Ma had never had a _someone’s gonna get it_ look, mostly because she’d never needed one. Someone was _always_ going to get it with Ma, and Credence had done his best to protect his sisters and make sure it was always him. Ma’s version of the _someone’s gonna get it_ face was implacable, stone-faced disapproval.

“It’s a remarkably parental look,” Newt murmured.

There was no reason that should make Credence feel better, but it did. Maybe it was just because it was Newt saying it. Newt was calm and soothing and never, ever lied. Credence trusted Newt.

“Neither of you are in trouble,” Credence said firmly. “The _New York Ghost,_ on the other hand…”

“That rag?” Jacob asked. “You wizards ought to invest in some real journalism.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the _Daily Prophet,”_ Newt pointed out. “I think it’s just the American wizards that have trouble with fake journalism.”

“I’ll put it on the list of things to change,” Credence promised. “Right after Rappaport’s Law. For now, what do you know about wizarding fashion?” It did not seem significantly different from the fashion of ordinary people if what Percival wore was any indicator, but maybe there were very subtly different rules, like with high society manners.

“Not a thing,” Jacob said, wry.

“Practically nothing,” Newt added, sounding cheerful about it.

Credence had expected that. “I think we need to consult an expert,” he said. “Can you take us to Ariadne’s?”

Newt and Jacob exchanged a look.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Newt asked carefully.

“Are you playing chicken with the reporters?” Jacob wanted to know.

“Percival made a deal with them,” Credence said grimly. “He agreed to an interview if they’d leave me alone.”

“Ah,” said Newt.

Jacob sighed. “Your man’s got a self-sacrificing streak the size of Europe,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” Credence agreed. “He’s meeting a journalist for dinner someplace fancy tonight. I want to make sure he has back-up if he needs it. Hence the need for fashionable clothes.” Credence did not give two figs about fashion, but he wanted to look like he belonged. The right clothes would help him blend in.

“Wouldn’t you rather consult with someone else?” Newt asked. “Tina, maybe?”

“Absolutely not,” said Credence. “She’ll just ask me if I’m asking her about fashion because she’s a woman, and _then_ she’ll be disappointed in me. Again.” He did not want Tina to be disappointed in him.

“Queenie, maybe?” Newt tried.

“Queenie and Tina both have jobs,” Credence reminded him. “It would be rude to interrupt them at work.”

Newt made a face. “There’s just so many people,” he sighed.

Jacob clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll look out for you, pal,” he promised.

“I could ask Dorothy, if going will make you uncomfortable,” Credence offered, feeling a bit guilty. He hadn’t meant to push.

“No, no,” Newt said hastily. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go, shall we?”

Credence fetched a spare bottle of Bessie’s Baby Balm, Percival’s coin purse and, after a moment’s consideration, a bucket to be sick in if he needed to.

“Let’s go,” he agreed.

 

*

 

Ariadne’s was exactly as Credence remembered: a riot of color and fabric that was kept just shy of overwhelming through sheer force of organization.

The shopgirl recognized him immediately. “Welcome back, Mr. Graves,” she called. “I’ll be with you in just a second.”

Credence blinked. Percival had always been Mr. Graves to him; it was strange to think that the name was his now.

He liked it. Credence Graves was a person worthy of respect.

“What are you looking for?” the shopgirl asked.

“I’m not quite sure. I’m not very fashionable,” he told her apologetically. “I was hoping you could help?”

She beamed at him. “Of course. Did you have anything in mind?”

Credence nodded. “I need something that it would be appropriate to wear for dinner at the Luminaria,” he said, hoping she’d recognize the name of the restaurant. He suspected it was the wizarding equivalent of the Waldorf-Astoria.

“Ah,” she said. “Are you making your debut into wizarding society?” she asked.

“How did you – Oh. You saw the article in the _Ghost,”_ he sighed. At least she’d called him _Mr. Graves_ and not _Mr. Barebone._ Over her shoulder, he saw Jacob bristle, ready to leap to Credence’s defense.

The shopgirl grimaced. “I didn’t realize who you were, last time,” she said apologetically. “Not that I’d have treated you any differently!” she hastened to add. “It’s just, it’s a bit of a coup for us, having you shop here.”

Credence stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. “It is?”

She seemed surprised that he was surprised. “Well, yes,” she said. “You’re a _Graves._ Anyone who’s anyone will be paying attention to you when you go to events.”

“Oh,” Credence said faintly. This was a little like being confronted with the fact that they owned the safe house. He kind of wanted to go lie down until the world made sense again.

“If you’re wearing clothes from Ariadne’s, it reflects well on us,” the shopgirl continued. “Director Graves goes to Tómas, of course,” she said, like it was just common knowledge. “He’s not quite the trendsetter Madam President is, but he always has such panache.” She grinned at him. “Maybe you’ll be the fashionable one.”

Newt made an amused noise. “You could be,” he agreed.

“I think fashionable people know more about clothes than I do,” Credence said, because the sum total of what he knew about clothes would fill a thimble. “And to answer your question, no. I’m not making any kind of debut. I’m …” He thought about what he wanted to do. “Making a statement.”

“Alright,” the shopgirl said. “What kind of statement?”

“That the _New York Ghost_ can stay the hell away from my fiancé,” Credence said.

The shopgirl blinked. Then she said, “Let me grab Ariadne. She’s going to want to help.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,” Credence said.

The shopgirl beamed. “Trust me,” she said. “Ariadne will want to help. It’s no bother at all.”

“If you’re sure,” Credence said.

“Well,” said Newt, sounding relieved that he would not be called upon for fashion advice. “Now you’re _definitely_ consulting with an expert.”

“Oh my _God,”_ Credence said. “I’m marrying into wizarding royalty!”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that impression too,” Jacob said.

“I don’t think Americans do royalty,” Newt pointed out.

Credence flapped a hand at him. “High society, then.”

Newt cocked his head to one side. “I thought you knew that already.”

“I thought so too,” Credence said. “But it’s one thing to know about it and another to –” He made a vague gesture in the direction the shopgirl had gone. “People – complete strangers – are going to look at me and think what _I’m_ wearing matters when I’m just – I’m just _me.”_

“Complete strangers are going to look at you and see someone extraordinary,” Newt said firmly.

“Someone magical,” Jacob added.

“A Graves,” an older woman said. She was the oldest woman Credence had ever seen, tiny and wrinkled. Her dark eyes danced with amusement. “Thea tells me you’re going to spite the _Ghost.”_ Her accent was like the shopgirl’s, careful emphasis on the vowels. “How splendid.”

“Ma’am,” Credence said. “Thank you for your help.”

Ariadne smiled at him. Credence noticed she was wearing a little golden spider pin; the same spider that was on the sign outside. It moved, spinning intricate lace webs in golden thread across her dress. “My dear boy, it’s my genuine pleasure.”

Credence was starting to think that no one in the wizarding world particularly liked the _New York Ghost._

“Did you have anything in mind?” Ariadne asked.

Credence showed her his ring. “Something that will look well with sapphires and silver,” he said.

Ariadne smiled again. “I’ve got just the thing,” she told him.

 

*

 

“Well,” Minister Gaarder said, her voice very flat and expressionless. “Why don’t we break for today and reconvene in the morning?”

“Agreed,” said Seraphina, equally expressionless. “Perhaps we can reach a more suitable accord after a good night’s sleep. I’m sure you’re all tired from your journey.”

If looks were hexes, Seraphina would have been covered in them after that. Gaarder’s bright blue eyes flashed murderously, but she simply inclined her head and murmured, “Perhaps we will.”

The ICW delegation and the security detail took their leave.

Graves slumped in his chair and thought longingly of the bottle of whiskey in his office. If he showed up to his interview with Gallagher with alcohol on his breath, he’d deserve the field day she’d have with that.

“Fuck,” he grumbled.

“Fuck,” Seraphina agreed.

“Fuck,” said Ramirez.

Graves and Seraphina both looked at him. Ramirez rarely swore, and any occasion that he did so was generally cause for alarm.

Maybe he really did need that vacation after all.

Ramirez scowled. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he declared. “We just spent the last five hours arguing and got abso-fucking-lutely nothing accomplished. We’re not going to yield, and I’m beginning to think Gaarder won’t either. Frankly, I’m not sure if that woman even knows what the word yield means.”

“Oh, I think she does,” Seraphina murmured. “Just as something that happens to other people. She’s quite impressive.”

Graves exchanged a look with Ramirez, because that sounded a hell of a lot like open admiration. Seraphina admired strength of character regardless of gender.

“Do not sleep with the head of the ICW delegation,” Ramirez commanded.

He _definitely_ needed that vacation. Ramirez, like Graves, had learned the hard way to stay out of Seraphina’s romantic entanglements. Seraphina would occasionally let Ramirez get away with interfering, but there was no way she would let that slide.

“I wouldn’t compromise the investigation by sleeping with Gaarder,” Seraphina said frostily.

Ramirez’s expression was profoundly skeptical, but he kept his mouth shut.

“And on that note, I’m going to go have dinner with a compulsive liar,” Graves said.

Seraphina raised an eyebrow at him. “Why are you meeting with Donaldson?”

“I agreed to an interview in exchange for not harassing Credence,” explained Graves.

“You’re an idiot,” said Ramirez.

“Yep,” said Graves.

“Don’t punch him,” Seraphina said.

“I’m not meeting with Donaldson. I’m meeting with Gallagher.”

Seraphina tilted her head to the side and considered that. “This is going to end badly,” she predicted.

“I know,” Graves said.

“Don’t punch her, either,” Ramirez advised.

“I wouldn’t!” Graves protested.

Ramirez raised both eyebrows at him. “Tell that to someone who _doesn’t_ remember the knockdown drag out brawl you two had when you were sixteen.”

“That was a duel,” corrected Graves.

“Yes. A Graves-style one. I seem to recall you blacked Seraphina’s eye and she bruised your testicles. And that was _before_ the two of you really got going.”

Graves winced at the memory. That had not been his finest hour. “Fine,” he conceded. “I won’t punch Gallagher either. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Ramirez deadpanned.

“Wonderful,” Graves said, and went to fetch his coat.

He Apparated to the alley behind the Luminaria. Graves paused to adjust his cuffs and smooth down his suit jacket to ensure that he was presentable, and then he walked around to the front of the building.

Bellamy treated his employees well, so the staff had relatively little in the way of turnover. He recognized the hostess immediately; Deirdre Reynolds had worked the front of the house for almost a decade now.

“Hello, Deirdre,” he said.

“Director Graves!” she said warmly. “I hear congratulations are in order.” She nodded to his new ring. “Also, you’d better hope Chef doesn’t see you. He’s going to fuss.”

Bellamy’s tendency to mother hen almost rivaled Collins’. He tended to be much grumpier about it, though.

“I wanted to speak with him, actually,” Graves said.

“It’s your funeral,” Deirdre told him. “Table for two?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Graves said. He’d sent a pigeon to Bellamy earlier requesting a table and explaining why he needed one on such short noticed. He suspected Bellamy would make him pay for it one way or another, but he’d gotten a table.

Deirdre led him to a small table off to one side of the center of the restaurant. Graves appreciated that she remembered his preferences. He could keep his back to the wall – thus protecting it from an unanticipated attack – and the table had good sightlines of the rest of the restaurant, save the kitchen. He could keep an eye on the door for Gallagher’s arrival.

Gallagher arrived less than ten minutes later, wearing a pale green dress that sparkled with beads. The cut of it was daringly low. Graves wondered if the amount of cleavage on display was for his benefit.

“Director Graves,” Gallagher purred.

Graves rose and pulled out her chair for her. “Ms. Gallagher.”

Gallagher looked around, taking in the decor. Bellamy had charmed the ceiling to look like the Northern Lights. The lighting in the Luminaria was low, carefully calculated to make each table feel like a small, isolated pocket, uninterrupted by the other patrons. There were statues of various and sundry Greek gods tucked into the wall nooks, because Bellamy had a thing for Greek mythology. All history in general, really. Bellamy liked to moonlight as an amateur historian in what little spare time he had. Graves suspected he enjoyed the academic squabbling.

“Have you ever been here before?” Graves asked, just to be polite. It was obvious she hadn’t. The Luminaria was a bit beyond a reporter’s salary, even if she was Donaldson’s current golden girl.

“No,” Gallagher admitted. “It’s lovely.”

One of the waitstaff brought them water and asked after drinks. Graves declined anything stronger, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gallagher did the same.

“I’ll be right out with your starters,” the waiter promised.

“Thank you,” said Graves. He took a sip of his water and watched Gallagher. “Shall we get started?”

Gallagher’s answering smile was a little vulpine. “Of course. I trust you have no objections to my recording our conversation? For accuracy,” she added.

Accuracy. Right.

“Of course not,” Graves said. He noticed that Gallagher didn’t draw her wand to activate a recording charm. She must have already cast it.

Wonderful.

“How did Grindelwald take you prisoner?” Gallagher asked.

“He beat me in a duel,” Graves said.

Gallagher made a tutting noise at him. “I seem to recall you agreed to a full interview,” she chided. “How did Donaldson put it? Oh, yes, _without any of your mealy-mouthed squirming.”_

Graves raised one eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m squirming?” he inquired.

“You look like you’re being obstreperous for the sake of being obstreperous,” Gallagher retorted. “Elaborate, please.”

“I went for a walk after I left the Woolworth Building,” Graves said. He’d been in no shape to Apparate, and he liked walking. He liked the quiet, and the familiarity of it. New York was his city in a way that nowhere else had ever been. He felt comfortable walking New York's streets. Maybe too comfortable. “Grindelwald caught up to me just outside my house.”

“This would be the brownstone,” Gallagher said. “Which you have not returned to since then. Was it so traumatic, being held prisoner in your own home?”

“I thought you wanted me to tell you how Grindelwald took me prisoner.”

She widened her eyes exaggeratedly. “I was simply expressing concern,” she said, all sugary sweetness.

Sure you were, Graves thought.

“Grindelwald was stronger than I was,” Graves said. He wondered if she’d notice that he’d used the past tense. “He used _dilaceratio_ – do you know it? It’s a slashing hex. Damn near took my left leg off at the knee.”

“Language,” she chided.

“You work with Donaldson. You’ve heard worse.”

“Fair point,” she acknowledged.

“After that, I was rather more concerned with not bleeding out,” Graves said. He remembered being terrified, his whiskey-soaked brain struggling to remember the tourniquet spell – hell, _any_ healing spell. He remembered thinking, _not like this,_ because he hadn’t wanted to die stupid-drunk and in defense of nothing. He’d fumbled out a healing charm that hurt worse than the original injury, knitting the worst of the damaged tissues back together and slowing the bleeding enough that he probably wouldn’t die of it. He’d passed out after that. “I woke up in my basement with Grindelwald leering down at me, wearing my face.”

 _Oh, Percival,_ he’d said. _We’re going to have such **fun,** you and I._

 _Go fuck yourself,_ Graves had replied.

“He pretended to be you for nearly six months,” Gallagher said. “Why do you suppose he kept you alive?”

“Primarily for information,” Graves said. “He could hardly pretend to be the Director of Magical Security without some knowledge of our people and procedures. He pretended to go to Europe – hunting himself – and spent most of that time interrogating me.”

“You needn’t spare my delicate sensibilities simply because I’m a woman,” Gallagher told him. “I’ve seen your medical records. Your injuries were extensive. Grindelwald tortured you, didn’t he?”

Graves made a mental note to add that to the charges he brought against Wilkinson. “My medical records are private.”

“You’re a public figure,” she countered.

“Being a public figure does not give anyone the right to my medical records,” he shot back.

“Don’t be naive, Director Graves. The people have a right to the truth.”

“That nonsense again,” Graves sighed.

“The truth is nonsense to you?”

“The way you write it? Yes.”

They were interrupted by the waiter returning with their starters. Salted almonds and celery olives. This was clearly going to be a multiple course meal; Bellamy couldn’t resist the urge to feed people.

“Grindelwald tortured you,” Gallagher said again, nibbling on an olive.

“He did.”

“How?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” Graves said, feigning reluctance.

“People would regard you in a more sympathetic light, if they knew what you’d been through,” Gallagher said.

Graves considered that. He doubted Gallagher would be sympathetic, but talking about what Grindelwald had done to him would keep her from asking about Credence. He sighed. “Grindelwald favors the Cruciatus Curse,” he said. “Dark wizards tend to. When he got bored with that, he moved on to subtler curses. Drowning and choking with the odd slashing hex thrown in.”

“Starvation.”

“That, too. He fed me whenever he felt like it. Sometimes he’d forget for days on end.”

“When did he take Barebone captive?”

“I’m honestly not certain,” Graves said. “I had no way of reliably keeping track of time. He held me captive behind magic suppressing wards in my basement. Feedings were never on a reliable schedule.”

 _“Why_ did he take Barebone captive?”

“You’d have to ask Grindelwald that.”

“I’m asking you,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice.

Graves waggled a finger at her. “That wasn’t the deal. You’re to leave Credence out of this.”

“I’m not to smear his name or make insinuations about his condition,” Gallagher snapped. “I can still include him in the article! This is just basic information gathering.”

“No,” Graves said. “You’re trying to figure out which buttons to push. Making me relive my various traumas to see where my breaking points are; you want me to lose my temper and give you a pull-quote that will sound absolutely horrific taken out of context.”

Gallagher glared at him. “I just want the facts,” she said. “I’m a reporter. It’s my _job_ to report the truth. What did Grindelwald want with Barebone?”

“The Obscurial,” Graves said. It was, strictly speaking, the truth. Grindelwald had sought Credence out because he thought Credence could help him find the Obscurial.

“He what?” Gallagher asked, clearly thrown off balance.

“Grindelwald wanted Credence to help him find the Obscurial,” Graves said. “He wanted a weapon.”

Gallagher did a credible impression of someone who was not salivating at that very thought. Grindelwald’s capture had been linked to the destruction of the Obscurial, but never so tangibly.

“Why did he think Barebone could help him?” Gallagher asked.

“Again, you’d have to ask Grindelwald that.”

“Speculate.”

“That wouldn’t be fact,” Graves said.

Gallagher ground her teeth. “In your opinion as an Auror, why do you think Grindelwald thought Barebone could help him?”

“Grindelwald claims to be a Seer,” Graves told her. “I suspect he thought he had a vision that gave weight to the notion.”

“A Seer,” Gallagher said thoughtfully. “The _Daily Prophet_ mentioned that. I thought it was nonsense.”

“True Seers are rare,” Graves said.

“Was he right?” Gallagher asked. She held up a hand. “I know. I’d have to ask Grindelwald that.”

“Yes and no,” said Graves. “The Obscurial was a girl by the name of Modesty Barebone. She was eight years old.”

Gallagher froze. “Barebone.”

“Yes.” Graves wondered if Modesty had had an obscurus before Grindelwald took away her protector. Had Grindelwald created a self-fulfilling prophecy?

He hoped like hell Credence never, ever wondered that.

“He got the wrong sibling,” Gallagher said, clearly writing copy in her head. She shook her head as if to clear it and then said, “What I don’t understand is why you fucked him.”

“What happened to language?”

Gallagher waved that aside. “You were right. I work with Donaldson, I’ve heard worse.”

“Were you going to ask a question, or have you gone back to trying to push my buttons?” Graves asked.

“Whose child is it?” Gallagher asked. “The one that Barebone carries.”

“You don’t know?” Graves asked.

Gallagher’s answering smile had teeth in it. “My source seems to have mysteriously vanished,” she said.

“How unfortunate,” Graves murmured.

“The child?” she prompted.

“Credence and the child will both have my name,” Graves said.

“Now you’re back to being obstreperous,” Gallagher said. “I thought you were going to cooperate?”

“Ms. Gallagher, when I decide to _stop_ cooperating, believe me when I say you’ll know,” Graves told her.

 _“This_ is you being cooperative?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Graves.

“Merlin’s balls,” she muttered, taking a vicious bite of her entree.

Graves belatedly realized that his own dinner had appeared at some point. He eyed it curiously. A guinea hen with mushrooms, alongside an asparagus risotto. He hadn’t touched it yet. Bellamy would probably add a couple of vengeful zeros to his bill for that.

He ate a mouthful of risotto.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “That’s good.”

“The chef here is excellent,” Gallagher agreed. “Going back to Barebone and the child, though. Who fathered it?”

“Does it really matter?” Graves countered.

Gallagher shrugged. “It’s part of the story. It’s not an insinuation if I’m presenting a fact,” she added. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“It’s none of your business,” Graves said.

“Is it Grindelwald’s?” Gallagher ate some of her guinea hen. “You’re being evasive, which suggests that it is.”

“I’m being evasive to protect my family’s privacy,” Graves corrected.

“So you do intend to marry him.” Gallagher indicated his ring with her fork. “Have you finally gotten him a bridegift?”

“From Revere’s,” confirmed Graves.

“Nothing but the best,” she murmured.

“He deserves all that and more.”

That got him a sharp look. “Director Graves,” Gallagher said slowly. “Are you _smitten?”_

“I love him,” Graves said.

“Merlin’s beard,” she breathed. “The Director of Magical Security, in love with a Second Salemer. Imagine the scandal. Did you know him, before Grindelwald took you prisoner? Did you break Rappaport’s Law?”

Graves resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Whatever narrative you’re constructing: stop. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” she demanded.

Graves considered that carefully. This was the one quote he could not afford to have misconstrued. Whatever else Gallagher wrote, he wanted everyone who read the _New York Ghost_ to know that he loved Credence wholeheartedly and without reserve.

Some would see that as advertising his weaknesses for all the world to see. Graves didn’t; he meant for the world to read it as a warning. He had been the Graves in MACUSA for nearly half his life now; he’d fought and bled and nearly died in MACUSA’s service, because he loved his people.

That was nothing compared to how much he loved Credence, and if anything happened to Credence – if anyone dared to hurt him – Graves would rip magic itself apart to avenge him. Everything he’d ever done in MACUSA’s service would pale in comparison.

“Have you ever been in love, Ms. Gallagher?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Yes,” she said.

“Then you know what it’s like,” Graves said. “Once you get past that first rush of infatuation, the desperate wanting, when love settles into something quieter; something you can build on. I fell in love with his kindness, first. Credence showed me the strength of his heart and I – greedy bastard that I am – saw it and wanted it for my own. I wanted _him._ I fell in love with Credence because he is extraordinary.”

Gallagher stared at him, honey-brown eyes thoughtful. “You fell in love with him while you were both prisoners,” she said. “How do you know it will last? Don’t tell me it’s for the child’s sake – that never ends well for the child.” The bitter twist to her mouth suggested she was speaking from experience.

“I can see how you would think that,” Graves said. “That we bonded because of the shared trauma of Grindelwald. And then, of course, there’s the child to think of. Wouldn’t that be a story?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“You’d be wrong,” Graves told her.

Gallagher pouted at him. “Director Graves, I am strongly beginning to suspect you’re a terrible cocktease.”

Graves snorted. “I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone’s leveled _that_ particular accusation at me.” He caught sight of a familiar figure approaching their table, out of Gallagher’s line of sight. Out of his too, for the most part.

Graves was going to murder Bellamy.

“You’re all promise and no follow through,” she told him.

“Says who?” Graves asked.

“Says _me,”_ she said, leaning in far too close. It looked almost like she was leaning in for a kiss. “Care to prove me wrong?”

“Sorry,” a new voice said, cold as the winter winds. “He’s taken.”

Graves stood up and offered Credence his chair. “Do you mind if I borrow one of these?” he asked the wizard at the next table.

“Not at all,” the wizard said genially, looking as if this was the best entertainment he’d had in ages.

Gallagher stared at Credence as though he were the Holy Grail and a giant pile of chocolate combined. “Credence Barebone,” she breathed.

“Credence Graves,” Credence corrected. The chill in his voice did not match the fire in his eyes, all rage and possessive heat. He held out his left hand, letting Gallagher catch sight of his bridegift. Graves took the offered hand and kissed it, lingering reverently over Credence’s knuckles and his fingers, all his admiration on display. “And you are?”

“Adrienne Gallagher, _New York Ghost._ Have you made it official, then? I didn’t see a wedding announcement.”

“You don’t have to answer her,” Graves murmured. “Not unless you want to.”

Credence stared at Gallagher. He looked the way he had the night after Wilkinson had been arrested: like magic made flesh, a storm in the shape of a person. He looked fae and untouchable and cold, decked out in sapphires and silver and a suit in a shade of blue so dark it was nearly black. His shirt was the color of freshly fallen snow, shot through with luminescent threads that glowed like moonlight in the dim circle cast by the candles on the table. He hadn’t bothered with a waistcoat, but he was wearing a tie. Graves couldn’t recall ever having seen Credence in a tie before, and he rather liked the look of this one. It was midnight blue, and MACUSA’s eagle had been embroidered on it in silver thread. It was a twin of the one he’d worn to the Special Tribunal, done up in different colors. Graves did not doubt that the choice was deliberate. Credence was a Graves, just as much as he was. The child he carried might be the next Graves in MACUSA, if Dindrane’s daughter Gwen didn’t get there first.

“The people have a right to know,” Gallagher chided. “And no one ever said we couldn’t talk to him if he approached us.” She’d abandoned the sex kitten approach the instant Credence sat down, all the heavy-handed artificial charm vanishing as though it had never been. A hard-eyed reporter had taken its place.

It wasn’t much of an improvement.

“I don’t believe that anyone other than Percival or myself has any right to our privacy,” Credence said. “And I don’t need a notice in the paper or a ceremony to tell me who I am.”

Bravo, Graves thought, mentally applauding.

“You might not,” Gallagher said. “But the rest of the world does.”

Credence raised an eyebrow at her, all haughty disdain and absolute control. Graves recognized that expression. It was the one he wore whenever he had to deal with Grindelwald.

The thought of Credence mimicking _his_ expressions probably should not have been as appealing as it was. Graves found everything about Credence appealing, though, and he liked what it meant. You picked up on other people’s habits, the more time you spent with them. He liked that he’d left a mark on Credence, invisible as it was.

He wondered what marks Credence had left on him.

“I can’t speak for the rest of the world,” Credence told Gallagher. “I don’t believe you ought to, either.”

“I’m a reporter,” Gallagher retorted. “It’s what I _do.”_

“No,” Credence said firmly. “It isn’t.” He sounded like he _meant_ that. He’d come a long way from the scared boy he’d been, back when they’d both been Grindelwald’s prisoners. The Credence of old had tried to sound firm and missed the mark; the Credence of now had found the strength and the will to stand unmoved. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you deal in fiction, Ms. Gallagher, not fact. Your articles read like the worst sort of rumor mongering, and you have no right to speculate on our relationship.”

An angry flush bloomed across Gallagher’s cheeks. “It’s funny,” she said. “People always say things like that; that we have _no right_ to the truth. It usually means there’s a story there. What secrets are you keeping, Mr. Barebone?”

Credence smiled at her. “You’ll never know.”

“Whose child is it?” she asked. “Director Graves wouldn’t say.”

Credence slanted a look at Graves, probably wondering why Graves had kept quiet. Graves smiled back, toothy and a little smug. Let Gallagher speculate; Verity MacDuff’s article would set the record straight.

“Is it Grindelwald’s?” she pressed. “Are you a sympathizer?”

Credence narrowed his eyes. Graves felt Credence’s magic wash over his skin and shivered. Grindelwald had said that Credence had enormous magical reserves; and he was right.

It made Graves think of the sea. Credence’s magic felt vast and powerful, with undercurrents deep enough to drown in. He did not doubt for a second that if Credence had been fully trained when Grindelwald took him prisoner, Credence could have broken them out before supper.

Mine, Graves thought, because Credence was. All of wizarding New York would know that by sundown tomorrow. Graves had wooed and won the most gorgeous, powerful wizard in New York. 

Fuck. He really wanted to take Credence to bed now.

“Do you really think I’m a sympathizer?” Credence asked.

“Honestly? A bit.” Gallagher shivered, unused to the display of power.

“If that’s really what you believe, then I would suggest that you stop making me angry. Keep your filthy mouth and your filthy lies off my fiancé and my baby, and _leave my family alone.”_ Credence stood up.

Gallagher had more balls than sense. “Or else what?” she asked. “You left that part out when you were threatening me.” She sounded gleeful about that.

“That wasn’t a threat, Ms. Gallagher,” Credence said. “Bullies make threats. A Graves makes promises. And I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

Graves stood up as well. “Have a good evening, Ms. Gallagher,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

“I didn’t say we were done,” Gallagher snapped.

“You didn’t have to,” Graves said, amusement cutting through his arousal. _“He_ did.”

“You’ll regret this,” she warned him. “Both of you.”

“No,” Graves said. “We won’t.” From the back of the restaurant, he thought he heard someone cheering.

“Credence,” Graves murmured. “Did you bring Newt and Jacob with you?”

“Of course,” Credence said. “I can’t Apparate on my own yet.”

“Right,” Graves murmured. He followed Credence towards the door, pausing at Deirdre’s station. “Put the back table on my tab, I’ll settle up with Bellamy tomorrow.”

“Already done,” she said cheerfully. “That was quite a show.”

Credence ducked his head, embarrassed. The intense pressure of his magic vanished, leaving Graves’ Credence behind, shy and sweet and overly concerned by propriety. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Graves,” she said kindly. “You’re good for business. We’re going to be booked out for months.”

“Try and keep the back table here for a little while longer, if you can,” Graves murmured.

“Yes, sir,” Deirdre said, her expression very bland.

“Oh, lord,” muttered Credence, looking mortified.

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed by, lovely,” Graves told him, tugging him into the alley behind the Luminaria where the Apparation point was. “You’re not the one walking out of the best restaurant in wizarding New York with a raging hard on.”

Credence’s gaze dropped to Graves’ crotch. He went bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. “I don’t think you have anything to be embarrassed by, either,” he said tartly. “You’re … impressive.”

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Graves swore. He hauled Credence in for a kiss, feeding his magic into the androgenesis spells as he did so.

“Percival,” Credence protested, his voice a breathy whine.

“I know,” Graves soothed. Credence didn’t want to associate Graves’ magic with sex. Graves couldn’t blame him for that; he’d gotten an erection every time Credence demonstrated how powerful he was, and that was bound to become inconvenient at some point. He Apparated them both home and dragged Credence into bed.

 

*

 

“Fuck,” Percival said, his eyes blown wide with lust. “The things you do to me. You make an old man feel young again.”

Credence snorted. “Thirty-nine isn’t _old,”_ he protested, clawing at the buttons on Percival’s waistcoat. “Why do you wear so many _layers?”_

“Because it looks good,” Percival said. He tilted Credence’s face up and layered kisses down his neck, pausing to suck a wet red mark of possession at the base of it. “And you’re one to talk. What are you _wearing?”_

Credence grinned. “Ariadne made me a suit. Do you like it?”

Percival ground his erection against Credence’s hip. “What do you think?”

“I think you like me better out of it, same as everything else I wear.”

“It’s not my fault you look perfect naked,” Percival argued. “If I had my way, you’d never put clothes on.”

“This is my surprised face,” Credence told him, not looking especially surprised at all.

Percival burst into delighted laughter. “My Credence,” he said, his voice a low rumble of want. “Sweet and powerful and so fucking _smart._ How did I wind up with someone as perfect as you?”

“I think that’s my line,” Credence said, divesting Percival of his shirt.

“It really isn’t,” Percival told him. “What you said to Gallagher – that was _perfect._ You have no idea how badly I wanted to put you on that table and ravish you.”

Credence couldn’t tell if he was serious about that or not. “That would have been vastly inappropriate,” he managed, half the words getting caught in a breathless moan as Percival slid his hand into Credence’s pants and stroked his cock. “Oh, god, Percival, _please.”_

He could feel Percival smiling against his skin. “Please what?”

“Don’t stop,” Credence commanded.

“I won’t,” Percival said, undoing Credence’s pants and shoving them down his hips. They got tangled in Credence’s shoes; Percival always forgot about those. “Fucking hell,” Percival muttered, bending to untangle them.

Credence laughed at him, feeling impossibly fond underneath the desire burning through his blood. “Ridiculous man,” he said, bending down to kiss him.

“I’m your ridiculous man, though,” Percival agreed. “How do you want this?”

Credence thought about the pictures from _Expecting the Unexpected_ and felt his ears go red. “Um,” he said. “Could we … Um. From behind?” He really hoped Percival knew what he was talking about. Percival was much more experienced than he was; surely Percival had to have tried it like that at some point. “I read – it’s supposed to be more comfortable? I could get the book.”

Percival looked amused. “You don’t need to get the book.”

“Oh, thank God,” Credence muttered. He let Percival maneuver him onto his hands and knees, cheeks on fire at the sheer wantonness of it. He squirmed, expecting to feel Percival’s hands on his skin, Percival’s body bracketing his own. Percival just looked at him though, for so long Credence thought he must be disgusted with Credence’s scars. He hadn’t thought of what his back must look like in so long he’d almost forgotten they were there.

“You’re beautiful,” Percival told him, bending down to press kisses down the knobs of Credence’s spine. He detoured over the worst scars, washing them clean with his kisses and his touch until Credence felt half-drunk with pleasure.

I’m not, Credence thought. His back was ugly, just like his hands.

“I love your hands,” Percival said, and Credence realized he must have spoken aloud. “Your gorgeous long fingers, the curve of your spine. You’re glorious. Your scars mean you survived. There’s no shame in that.”

“I should have –”

“Hush,” Percival said firmly.

A second later Credence felt what he thought was the spell to make him slick and open, except it felt different. Not as slick, for one thing. He’d grown to like the way that spell felt and how he felt after, the slick wet feeling between his thighs.

“Percival?” he asked, confusion cutting through his arousal.

“Tell me if you don’t like this,” Percival said, and put his mouth on him.

“Oh my _God,”_ Credence yelped. Percival was – he was – _oh my god,_ he thought again. It was different from having Percival’s mouth on his cock; more contained. The pleasure wasn’t as intense, but it was still good. Credence felt something slick and hot work its way inside of him and realized it was Percival’s tongue. Percival was opening him up with his tongue rather than his fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Percival worked one finger in alongside his tongue, stretching Credence’s rim. With only Percival’s spit for slick, the glide of it wasn’t as smooth. Credence arched back into Percival’s touch, delighting in the roughness of it. Percival was always gentle with him; Credence liked it when he was rough.

One finger became two, then three. Credence dropped his head down into the sheets to stifle his breathless moans.

“Percival, _please,”_ he begged.

“I’ve got you,” Percival promised, finally, finally casting the spell to get Credence slick inside. Credence made an awful sound of anticipation, something almost like a sob. He didn’t have words for how much he wanted Percival right now, how tightly coiled and wanting Percival had made him.

“It’s alright,” Percival murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Credence’s neck. “I’ve got you.” He pressed his hips forward, pushing his way inside so slowly Credence wanted to scream.

Not being able to see Percival made everything feel more intense. He focused on the sensation, deeper and more intense. Percival pulled back, just a little, and then pressed back in again, grinding his hips in slow, filthy circles.

“Fuck,” Credence said again, too overwhelmed to worry about the profanity. “Percival!”

“Love you,” Percival told him, panting the words against Credence’s skin. “Love you, love you, love you.”

“Love you,” Credence gasped. “You feel so good inside me. I want to feel you, tomorrow.”

“You will,” Percival promised. “I’m going to send you off to Georgia with my ring on your finger and the feel of me inside you so you remember you’re mine.”

“Like I’d ever forget,” Credence protested, not so far gone that he could let _that_ nonsense slide.

“Might find a nice Southern boy you like,” Percival teased. “One with prettier manners than me.”

“I like your manners,” Credence admitted, arching back into the next thrust. “And that nice Southern boy wouldn’t have a prettier cock.”

“Oh, fuck,” Percival groaned, startled into coming first. “The mouth on you.”

“You like it,” Credence retorted, squirming. He was so _close._

“I do,” Percival agreed. “But not as much as you like mine.” He pulled his cock free and replaced it with three fingers, crooking them just right to curl against the spot that made Credence writhe with pleasure. He put his other hand on Credence’s hip, pushing gently until Credence turned over. Then he put his mouth on Credence’s cock.

Credence shouted, pushed over the edge into orgasm. Percival kept his mouth and fingers where they were, working him through the aftershocks and dragging the orgasm out until Credence thought he’d die of how good he felt.

Credence came back to himself with Percival curled up around him like a shield. “Hush, darling,” Percival crooned. “I’ve got you.”

“You don’t really think that, do you?” Credence asked, when he could think again.

“Think what?”

“That I’ll find someone else. That I’d even _look_ at someone else,” Credence said.

“No,” Percival said immediately. “Never.”

“Oh,” Credence said, relieved. “Good. There is no other for me but you,” he added, in case Percival had forgotten.

Percival’s smile went predatory and smug. “I know.”

“Good,” Credence said again, and relaxed into sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to have this cleaned up to post on Saturday, and it just did not happen. Sorry, guys.
> 
> We are not going to talk about how many times I have edited/rewritten the articles. I have read so much _Fox News_ trying to get the tone of the _Ghost_ article right; I may never be clean again.

On Saturday, the sunset edition of the _New York Ghost_ featured a photo of Credence and Graves above the fold. It was, Graves had to admit, surprisingly tasteful, for the _Ghost._ It was the photo he would have picked, if he’d staged one from the interview: Credence, staring Gallagher down, his lovely face a mask of haughty disdain. He looked like a fae prince from one of the stories Graves’ mother used to tell him; like one of the Winter Court, untouchable and cold. The diadem resting against the inky darkness of his hair gave weight to that idea, as did Graves’ obviously worshipful presence at his side. Graves watched as the version of himself in the photo pressed a kiss to Credence’s hand.

“You look like you want to bend him over the table and fuck him while everyone watches,” Hughes opined. “You are really not subtle, Boss.”

“Why are you reading that trash at work?” Graves said, ignoring the part where that was pretty much _exactly_ what he’d wanted to do.

Hughes cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think a better question is, why aren’t you?”

“What makes you think I haven’t read the article yet?” Graves inquired.

“You’re not known for your subtlety,” Ramirez pointed out, appearing in the bullpen as though he’d Apparated out of thin air. Apparition wasn’t possible in the Woolworth Building, but if anyone was sneaky enough to find a way around the wards, it was Marco Ramirez. “If you’d read the article, you’d already have stormed off to break Donaldson’s nose. Again. If I could have a moment of your time, Graves? Madam President and Mrs. Maplethorpe would like a word.”

“You do realize we’re here to conduct an investigation, don’t you?” Gaarder inquired. “As fascinating as your domestic squabbles are, we have work to do.”

“I’ll just be a moment, Minister Gaarder,” Graves assured her.

“He’ll take his licks like a good boy and come back,” Theseus added, surprisingly cheerful for someone who’d spent the better part of yesterday shouting about the security protocols.

Gaarder sighed. It reminded Graves of Ramirez and William the Pukwudgie. It was a very _Isolt Sayre save me from the idiocy of wizards_ sort of sigh, except it probably meant _Merlin save me from the idiocy of Americans_ instead.

Graves didn’t blame her. He also wanted to be saved from the idiocy of Americans. He’d brought this on himself deliberately, though, so he went off to take his licks like a good boy so he could get back to work.

MACUSA’s Press Secretary was a generously proportioned woman with an ample bosom and the lungs of an opera singer. Rumor had it she didn’t need a vocal amplification charm to hit the same volume as a Howler. For once, Graves discovered, rumor had it exactly right.

Elisabeth Maplethorpe flung a copy of the _New York Ghost_ at Graves’ head and proceeded to rip blistering stripes off of him for his foolishness. If he insisted on engaging with the press, he could have at least requested the services of her department for help in crafting the narrative, rather than running off half-cocked like a callow youth not yet out of Ilvermorny.

“Well, perhaps half-cocked is unkind,” she conceded, voice scathing. “You seem to be running off entirely cocked. You’re far too old to be thinking with your dick, Graves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graves said, a bit flattened from all the yelling.

_“Don’t_ do it again,” she snapped. “Or I’ll let the _Ghost_ run the photo they wanted to instead.”

“What photo did they want to run?” Graves asked, afraid he already knew the answer to that.

Maplethorpe hit him in the face with a glossy 8”x10” photo of Graves escorting Credence from the Luminaria, his expression one of pure arousal. The angle of the photo did nothing to conceal the erection straining against his trousers.

“Marie Leveau,” Seraphina muttered, making a face. “I could have gone a lifetime without seeing that,” she complained.

Maplethrope snorted. “Trust me, Madam President, my department has seen worse. At least his dick was _in_ his pants.” With that parting gem, she stomped out the door of the Pentagram Office, leaving Graves to Seraphina’s tender mercies.

“I told you this would end badly,” Seraphina said.

“I agreed with you,” Graves said. “I was counting on it, even.”

Seraphina and Ramirez both stared at him.

“You deliberately pissed off the reporter from the _New York Ghost,_ didn’t you,” Seraphina said, her voice gone flat and resigned.

“Yes,” said Graves. “Yes, I did.”

Ramirez thumped him in the back of the head, exactly the way he used to when they were children at Ilvermorny and Graves had gotten on his nerves. “You’re an _idiot,”_ he said.

“I’m an idiot with a plan,” Graves said. “Can I get back to work, now?”

“Magic save me from Wampuses making plans,” said Seraphina. “Go.”

Graves took the paper with him, and went.

 

*

 

_**WHO DOES GRAVES SERVE?** _   
_GRAVES ADMITS TO COLLABORATING WITH GRINDELWALD_   
_Adrienne Gallagher, Investigative Reporter_

_Director of Magical Security Percival Graves has never been one to mince his words. He is far more likely to offer profanity than candor when dealing with members of the press, shielded from the repercussions of his behavior by virtue of his position and his longtime friendship with President Picquery._

_The Graves family – like the rest of the families descended from President Josiah Jackson’s original Twelve Aurors – has served MACUSA in one way or another since the Founding. The Graves’ are, perhaps, the only family to serve in an unbroken chain going back to Gondulphus Graves himself, because according to MACUSA lore, “there must always be a Graves in MACUSA.” Why? Because “dark things” await MACUSA if there is no Graves to serve it._

_Case in point: Gellert Grindelwald._

_It seems ridiculous to believe that Grindelwald’s actions can be blamed on Director Graves’ absence. There is far more evidence that blames Director Graves himself._

_The Picquery Presidency would have the public believe that Director Graves spent nearly six months as Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald’s prisoner of war: as Grindelwald’s victim. Yet by his own admission, Director Graves collaborated with Grindelwald to save his own skin. “[Grindelwald] could hardly pretend to be the Director of Magical Security without some knowledge of our people and procedures,” he said._

_The penalties for aiding and abetting Dark Wizards are severe. Allowances are made for corroboration under duress, but in egregious cases such as this one, a criminal conviction is the only reasonable course of justice. Why, then, is man responsible for upholding MACUSA’s laws somehow exempt from them? Records of the Special Tribunal which pardoned Director Graves of all crimes committed in his so-called “captivity” have been sealed by order of President Picquery herself, the identities of the judges kept confidential, lest anyone find the truth._

_Grindelwald’s alleged treatment of Director Graves is unprecedented. “Grindelwald is quick to kill,” explained an Auror who wished to remain anonymous. “He eliminates witnesses and anyone who might have some idea of what he’s planning if they’re not on his side.”_

_The question of why Grindelwald kept Director Graves alive remains unanswered, as does the question of why he kidnapped Credence Barebone._

_Director Graves claimed that “Grindelwald wanted [Barebone] to help him find the Obscurial. [Grindelwald] wanted a weapon.”_

_It seems likely, given his history, that Barebone would have given such a weapon to Grindelwald, had he found one. Barebone has been linked to the New Salem Philanthropic Society, a hate group whose primary goal is the extinction of wizardkind. The presence of a wizard in such an organization is chilling. Director Graves’ own ancestor laid down his life to stop the Scourers, but Director Graves clearly prefers to lay down with one instead._

_Barebone prefers to be addressed as Credence Graves, despite having no legal right to the Graves name. Director Graves himself seems inclined to rectify this, openly besotted with Barebone in the way older men frequently are with the pretty young things they’ve married. Director Graves recently gifted Barebone with the traditional Graves family bridegift: a set of sapphire and silver jewelry from Revere’s valued at a staggering two thousand dragots, a sum which suggests that Director Graves’ apparent fondness for Barebone goes past mere infatuation and straight into obsession._

_Barebone, in a rare public appearance, declined to say whether it was Grindelwald or Director Graves who fathered his child. It may be possible that he does not know, despite the fact that the spell to determine paternity is a simple one. Such ignorance seems unforgivable, unless it is deliberate. For a certain, petty sort of person, being the focus of attention for not one but two powerful men must seem intoxicating._

_When accused of being a Grindelwald sympathizer, Barebone issued a warning. “If that’s really what you believe, then I suggest that you stop making me angry.” He stated that further threats were unnecessary, because “a Graves makes promises.”_

_Barebone, it seems, will be a Graves modeled after the Director himself: a bully prone to lashing out at those less magically powerful than he is to remind them of who is stronger. One would expect Director Graves – sworn to uphold MACUSA’s laws and defend its citizens – to take his young lover to task for such open hostility. One would also be disappointed, as Director Graves chose to do nothing but follow Barebone’s lead._

_When speaking of Barebone, Director Graves turned surprisingly poetic. If you’ve ever been in love, “you know what it’s like,” he claimed. “Once you get past that first rush of infatuation, the desperate wanting, when love settles into something quieter; something you can build on.”_

_Whether or not Director Graves has actually made it past that “first rush of anticipation” remains to be seen. Barebone’s bridegift – and brand new suit from Ariadne’s, custom made earlier that same day – suggest otherwise._

_Which is stronger: love or loyalty? If Director Graves can love a potential Scourer and Grindelwald sympathizer, it begs the question of who, exactly, Director Graves is loyal to._

_It seems unthinkable to suggest that a descendant of the Twelve could be loyal to anything or anyone outside of MACUSA. Director Graves would not be the first man in his position led astray by a pretty face, but he might be the one to present the biggest threat to Magical Security in America._

_Who does Director Graves serve: MACUSA or Grindelwald?_

 

*

 

“Madam President done spanking you, then?” Theseus inquired.

“Mercy fucking Lewis,” said Graves. “No. Just – no.”

Theseus raised his eyebrows. “She’s _not_ done spanking you?”

“Would you stop phrasing it like that?” Graves demanded. “Fuck.” Seraphina was practically his _sister._ He did not want to think of her spanking him in _any_ sort of context. “I don’t think you could have found a more horrifying way to put that if you’d been _trying_ to.”

“Sure he could,” Hughes said cheerfully.

Graves pointed at her. “Don’t even _think_ about helping,” he commanded. “I will transfer you to _Alaska.”_

Since Hughes abhorred cold weather, that was actually a fairly effective threat. Graves was careful to use it sparingly, against the off chance that Hughes would realize that he didn’t mean it, but he felt the circumstances warranted it. He did not need Hughes and Theseus conspiring to traumatize him by sheer force of inappropriate commentary.

Gaarder cleared her throat. “If we could all please return to the matter at hand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Theseus said.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Graves.

_“Thank you,”_ said Gaarder. Her expression suggested that anyone who strayed from the matter at hand again would regret it. “Director Scamander, the proposed alterations to the security plan, if you would?”

“If you’re going to tell me you don’t have the manpower to employ the security plan _as written,_ you can stop right there,” Graves warned them.

Theseus threw up his hands. “I _don’t_ have the manpower to employ your bloody security plan! That hasn’t changed! That’s not _going_ to change. I don’t have enough people to make your fucking plan fucking _work.”_

Pointing out that MACUSA would lend its Aurors to the British Security team had not helped the last eighteen times they’d had this argument. It did not help that Graves was not actually having this argument with Theseus, his friend and colleague. No, this was fucking _politics._ The Head of British Magical Law Enforcement, who represented the British Security team, was having this argument with the MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, who spoke for MACUSA.

The ICW had vetted the British Security team. The ICW had not vetted any of MACUSA’s Aurors past establishing their identities and, in Graves’ case, determining whether or not the ICW agreed with the Special Tribunal’s decision to pardon him and reinstate him to his position. (They didn’t, but for some reason Grindelwald was still refusing to speak to anyone but Graves, so they didn’t have much choice in the matter.)

As far as the British Security Team and the ICW were concerned, MACUSA’s Aurors could not be trusted, on the off chance that one of Grindelwald’s sympathizers had either replaced one of Graves’ Aurors the way Grindelwald had replaced Graves, or that one of Graves’ people was actually one of Grindelwald’s.

MACUSA, in turn, maintained that Grindelwald was their collar and they’d be keeping him until they were sure the British Security team was up to the task of transporting him. (Newt’s involvement in Grindelwald’s arrest had been conveniently glossed over by both parties, lest Lady Scamander cause some sort of international incident that would probably involve murdering her firstborn, Grindelwald and possibly Graves, for reasons Graves was unclear on. Graves had never met Theseus and Newt’s mother, but all of Theseus’ stories made her sound about twelve feet tall and terrifying.)

As far as MACUSA was concerned, the British Security team could not be trusted either, because they’d tried and failed to catch Grindelwald for months now. Being vetted by the ICW was all very well and good, but it wasn’t as though the ICW had a military or an intelligence branch to back their actions up. If the ICW had, the British Security team wouldn’t be there. It’d be an ICW one.

Graves did not think round nineteen of this particular argument was liable to yield different results from the first eighteen times they’d had it.

“My office?” he suggested. Tensions between his team and Theseus’ were high enough without adding fuel to the fire.

Gaarder sighed. “I doubt having this discussion behind closed doors is going to help,” she observed. “Since we’ve been having the same argument for three days now.” She sounded grudgingly impressed by that.

“Grindelwald is too dangerous to transport without adequate security measures in place,” Graves said flatly.

“You’ve managed to keep him contained,” Tanwar pointed out. He did not seem to have shifted his stance on Graves’ fitness as an Auror or a commander any, and had taken to needling Graves at any chance he got. “Are you suggesting we aren’t up for the task?”

Graves was honestly more than a little tempted to let Goldstein hex him, but he didn’t want to see her throw her career away over something so trivial. He made a mental note to show her how to throw a proper punch later. It would probably be therapeutic for her.

“We’ve managed to keep Grindelwald contained because we’ve got him in magic suppressing cuffs inside a magic suppressing cell that’s been warded so strongly it gives anyone sensitive to such things a migraine. Grindelwald has no access to the outside world and whatever network he built. Right now, he’s got no allies and no way to escape. Move him and everything changes.”

“Forgive me, Director, but you’re overreacting,” Tanwar said. “You’re compensating for past failures with excessive paranoia. It’s a common mistake after trauma.”

“Trauma,” Hughes repeated.

Tanwar waved a dismissive hand at her. “Yes, yes. I know. You think Director Graves is wonderful and can do no wrong. My point stands.”

“You keep talking,” Hughes said, “And all I hear is _Win, please punch me in the face.”_

“No, Hughes,” Graves said.

“Boss,” she protested.

_“No.”_

Hughes glowered at him. “For the record,” she told Tanwar, “I generally think Director Graves is an asshole.”

“I think that’s the first thing you’ve said that I actually agree with,” replied Tanwar.

“And yet, I still want to punch you,” said Hughes.

“I agree,” Theseus said, startling everyone. “Not with you two,” he told Tanwar and Hughes. “You two are one playground tussle away from being written up for unprofessional conduct.”

“I’m writing you up if he does,” Graves added. “You can have black marks on your records from two directors in two different countries. Won’t that be nice?”

Both of them were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

“What do you agree with?” Graves inquired.

“We’re vulnerable during transport. If we had a similar set-up aboard ship, I’d feel better about our chances of containing him, but we don’t. And any ship manned by one of ours would take far longer than a commercial oceanliner,” Theseus said, his gaze distant.

“A longer voyage opens us up to an entirely different set of vulnerabilities,” Graves pointed out.

“Is there some reason the magic suppressing cuffs would be insufficient?” Gaarder asked. “I was under the impression that keeping Grindelwald in a magic suppressing cell as well as the cuffs was a redundancy.”

“The cuffs themselves are a redundancy,” Theseus said absently. “As most of us can’t cast spells without our wands. There are exceptions,” he added, waving a hand in Graves’ general direction.

“Grindelwald being one of them,” Graves pointed out. “He couldn’t have pretended to be me for so long if he couldn’t cast without a wand.”

“It’s not as natural, for him,” Goldstein said suddenly. She squared her shoulders when everyone turned to look at her. “Looking back on it, now that I know he wasn’t you. He sounded like you, but he didn’t move the way you do. He’s …” She mimed casting a spell with her wand, making her movements deliberately forceful. “His wandwork isn’t like yours. It’s more aggressive. His wandless casting was like that, too.”

“So there’s a chance the cuffs will keep him contained,” said Gaarder.

“That’s not a chance I’d care to bet my life on,” Graves said grimly.

“Has anyone broken out of magic suppressing cuffs before?” Gaarder asked.

“No,” Theseus said.

“Then I fail to see what the problem is.”

“There is no problem,” one of the junior delegates argued. “It’s impossible.”

“No,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Merely improbable.”

“We can’t spend the rest of our lives debating some improbable impossibility, Albus,” Wood pointed out. The Scottish delegate generally defaulted to being the voice of reason for the delegation, with Dumbledore and the Finnish delegate Korhonen serving as instigators or mediators depending on the situation. Korhonen was a better instigator than Dumbledore was, most of the time, but Dumbledore had his moments.

“Then perhaps we should remove the impossible,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t looking at the Wood when he said it; he was looking at Graves.

Graves could not tell if he was genuinely trying to be helpful, or if he just wanted to see what Graves could do.

Dumbledore still hadn’t asked to see Grindelwald, despite finagling his way into the ICW delegation for just that reason. It was almost, Graves thought, as if he were _afraid_ of Grindelwald.

If anyone had reason to be afraid of Grindelwald, it was probably Albus Dumbledore. Being the focus of Grindelwald’s romantic and sexual obsession was the sort of thing that kept a man up at night.

“Goldstein,” Graves said. “Fetch me a set of cuffs, please.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, darting off.

Theseus stared at him. “Are you mental?” he demanded. “What am I saying? I’ve met you. Of course you’re bloody mental. You can’t really mean to try and break out of magic suppressing cuffs just to prove a point.”

“I’ll need you to cast the containment wards,” Graves said.

“Pretending to be reasonable does not actually make this a reasonable course of action,” Theseus said. “The rebound alone –”

“Trust me,” Graves said.

Theseus pulled a face. “You’re going to look very foolish in front of all these people,” he said reproachfully. “And I am not going to hold back on the _I told you so’s.”_

“Here, sir,” Goldstein said, holding out the cuffs.

Graves inclined his head towards Gaarder. “Care to verify that they’re real?”

“I don’t think President Picquery would approve of this course of action,” Gaarder said, but that didn’t stop her from closing her hand around one of the cuffs. She shuddered in revulsion. “Is that what it’s like to wear those?” she asked. “That’s cruel.”

“No crueler than locking someone up with Dementors,” Graves said. “Not being able to cast magic and not having the will for it are two sides of the same coin. Both tend to lead to madness, in the end.” He put his hands behind his back, gesturing for Goldstein to cuff him.

“Are you sure about this, sir?” she asked.

“Don’t forget to take my wand,” Graves replied.

“If you get hurt, Credence will be very upset,” Goldstein said tartly. “Don’t upset Credence, sir.” She slipped his wand from its holster and tucked it in with her own.

Graves squashed the urge to smile at her. He liked that Goldstein knew where his weaknesses were and wasn’t afraid to go for the throat if she had to.

Being cuffed wasn’t the same as being held prisoner behind magic suppressing wards. The wards had dampened his abilities and kept the greater magics from him. The cuffs trapped his magic just beneath his skin and still somehow out of reach.

Theseus cast a triple layer of wards around him; he’d picked the knack of it up from Graves during the war and had clearly never lost it. Graves ignored him in favor of focusing on the cuffs, letting his magic well up like he was preparing to duel an armed opponent when he had no wand himself.

The cuffs were MACUSA standard: goblin-forged steel with the magic suppressing spells cast into the metal of the cuffs themselves and reinforced with a series of runes and sigils that accomplished the same thing. The combination of goblin and human magic was designed to make the cuffs harder to break. Most wizards rarely came across goblin magic in its natural form.

Graves had spent nearly six months testing Grindelwald’s wards. Testing his strength against the cuffs was easy, the magical version of muscle memory. He let his power build up farther still, barely aware of the restless movements of his observers. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting free.

Graves brought his magic down against the cuffs like a hammer. The resulting shockwave almost brought him to his knees, but the cuffs held. Gritting his teeth, Graves channeled the pain and more magic into a second blow.

The third one broke the cuffs. He heard them click open as the spells laid into them disintegrated.

Graves staggered, thrown off balance as his arms were released. He would have fallen over entirely if Theseus hadn’t caught him.

“Show off,” Theseus said fondly.

“I trust that removes the impossible?” Graves asked, keeping his voice even through sheer force of will. He felt like he’d run a marathon, but he had to look calm and in control. He was the Director of Magical Security and he could not afford to appear weak.

Gaarder inclined her head. “If one person can break the cuffs, it follows that another might be able to as well.”

“Grindelwald spent close to six months watching me test his wards. He knows I broke them. He’s aware that the possibility exists,” Graves said.

Gaarder considered that. “I believe I would like to continue this discussion in your office after all, Director Graves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Graves. “After you.”

 

*

 

“How much did that little stunt cost you?” Gaarder asked bluntly, as soon as the door was closed behind them.

“Not as much as breaking out of Grindelwald’s cell did,” Graves said.

“If Grindelwald broke free, right now, would you have the power to stop him?”

“Probably,” said Graves.

Gaarder raised an eyebrow at him. “I believe you just demonstrated why we should not trust in probability.”

“Theseus and I could stop him,” Graves said, utterly certain of it. “Separately … I don’t know.”

“You’re honest,” Gaarder observed, a note of surprise in her voice. “It’s unusual, for a man in your position.”

“Lying does a man in my position very little good,” Graves pointed out.

She shrugged, the movement eloquent in its simplicity. _And yet,_ that gesture said, _many do._ “You’re not the career politician Madam President is, but you know how to game is played.”

“I’ve always felt that a well-placed truth can do just as much good or harm as a lie,” Graves said. “Better to have the reputation of being a bit of a bastard, but an honest one.”

Gaarder’s lips twitched. “Your reputation has you marked as being more than just a _bit_ of a bastard.”

“Fortunately, I’ve never needed people to like me in order to do my job.”

“You have their respect,” Gaarder observed. “Or their fear. I don’t think that little stunt of yours did much to soothe Tanwar’s concerns. Now he thinks you’re dangerous, as well as potentially compromised.”

Graves did not give two figs for what Tanwar thought of him. “That’s a new one,” he said. “I thought Tanwar thought I was weak and paranoid.”

“Tanwar thinks you’re a lot of things,” Gaarder said. “That article in yesterday’s paper didn’t help.”

Graves realized why they were having this conversation behind closed doors. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wrestling his temper back under control. “If there’s a question you want answered, you might as well ask it,” he said quietly.

“Who do you serve, Director Graves?” she asked. “Grindelwald? Or MACUSA?”

“I serve MACUSA,” Graves told her. “I serve at the pleasure of the president, and I will continue to do so until Seraphina releases me from my duties.”

Gaarder’s lips twitched in another faint smile. “They tell stories about you, you know,” she said. “You and that secretary Garroway thinks is Madam President’s lover. They call you Picquery’s Hounds.”

Graves wondered if she knew what Ramirez really was to Seraphina. “I’ve always been more of a cat person, myself,” he said. So had Ramirez, for that matter.

Well, Ramirez was more of a porcupine person, at least as far as his personality went, but Gaarder probably wouldn’t appreciate it if Graves pointed that out.

Gaarder ignored that, regarding him with piercing blue eyes. Was she a Legilimens? Fuchs would have mentioned it if she was, unless Gaarder was stronger than he was. He couldn’t feel her trying to get inside his head through any means other than the force of her stare, though, so she probably wasn’t.

“Percival Graves is the wolf at the gate,” Gaarder said, the fanciful words at odds with her serious expression. “Anyone who wants to harm MACUSA or President Picquery will have to get through him first. They tell very impressive stories about your teeth and claws, Director.”

“Do they,” Graves murmured. “Tell me, do the stories actually say I’m some kind of werewolf bogeyman, or is the metaphor just a bit labored?”

“The latter, of course,” Gaarder said. “Although I don’t doubt that the more superstitious believe the former is true.”

Well, that was just fucking wonderful. Graves made a mental note to bring that up with Seraphina. A warning about the rumors might have been nice. It wouldn’t have changed anything, but it would have been nice.

“The other stories say that if anyone manages to slip quietly past the wolf at the gate, they’ll be met by the hound who sits by her feet and eats scraps from her table, as meek and harmless as a lamb until someone threatens his mistress. After that, well. Hounds are so very good at hunting.”

So she did know, Graves thought. Strangely, he thought she approved.

“You’ve got it backwards,” he said.

“Oh?”

“If we’re following your metaphor, I’m the hound. Seraphina’s had me tamed since we were children. Ramirez is the wolf.”

“Interesting,” Gaarder said. “A word of advice, Director Graves?”

Graves inclined his head to let her know he was listening.

“A man in your position has many potential enemies. You should never let them know what you can do so publicly.”

“My father used to tell me that,” Graves said. “I think it’s the only lesson of his I ever ignored.”

“Why?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Because if they’re looking at me, they’re not looking at her,” Graves said.

“Ah,” said Gaarder. “You’re the bait.”

The shield, Graves did not say.

“I did not expect Seraphina Picquery to be quite so ruthless as that,” Gaarder said, naked admiration in her voice. “She’s really quite formidable, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Graves said.

“You love her,” Gaarder observed. “Not romantically,” she continued, when Graves would have protested. “And not sexually, either, no matter what the less savory rumors say. But you love her so much you’d follow her into hell.”

“Only so I could drag her back out again,” Graves said.

Her expression didn’t change, but Graves was reasonably certain she was laughing at him. “That’s what you tell yourself, but I know what it’s like to love like that. You’d be beside her every step of the way.”

Graves wondered who Gaarder loved, and if she loved them still.

“Yes,” he said again. “I suppose I would.” But he’d still walk right back out again for Credence.

Gaarder nodded, as if he’d passed some test. “Alright, hound,” she said. “You’ve proven your point. You’re loyal to Picquery and your proposed security measures are based on a clear understanding of the threat Grindelwald presents. If we can’t remove Grindelwald’s ability to cast spells, what do you propose we do?”

“About that,” Graves said. “I have an idea.”

 

*

 

“Credence,” Dorothy breathed, staring wide-eyed at the newsstand. She flailed a hand in Credence’s general direction, stopping once she got ahold of Credence’s arm. “You’re on the _cover._ Both covers!”

“I think it’s technically the front page, for the _Ghost,”_ Credence replied, although he honestly wasn’t sure. That was what it was called for reputable newspapers, like the _New York Clarion_ or the _New York Times,_ but the _Ghost_ was little better than a scandal sheet. Maybe the names of things were different, like they were with magazines.

“Don’t you try and distract me with semantics,” Dorothy said, swatting his arm. “Oh my word. I’ve never known anyone famous before.”

“I’m not _famous,”_ Credence protested, because he wasn’t. Being in the papers once didn’t make you famous, did it? “And you know Percival and Seraphina, so you do too know famous people.”

Dorothy’s expression suggested she did not find his logic persuasive.

“Come on,” Credence said. “I want hot chocolate, and then we can read both articles.”

Dorothy raised both eyebrows at him. “Both articles,” she repeated.

“Yes?” He wondered why she thought that was strange. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to read what Gallagher had written, since it would undoubtedly be awful, but if people were going to pester him about it, he wanted to be prepared.

Dorothy plucked the _New York Ghost_ out of his hands. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “You still set the _Ghost_ on fire every time someone hands it to you, and that is _not_ how wizards behave in public.”

Credence suspected he’d just gotten a glimpse of what Dorothy would be like as a parent.

“Yes, Dorothy,” he said meekly.

“I’ll read this nonsense,” she continued, gesturing with the paper. “You should read Verity’s article.”

They settled into a table at a nearby coffee shop, ignoring the occasional odd look. The hot chocolate wasn’t quite as good as Jacob's or the Library’s, but Credence suspected that even bad hot chocolate would still be hot chocolate and therefore amazing.

The photographer from _Moment_ magazine Verity had introduced him to had wanted to do a full spread of seemingly ridiculous poses. He’d been very keen on the idea of photographing Credence against a backdrop of light, looking down at his belly while also cradling it, emphasizing his condition. Credence hadn’t liked the idea, and neither had Verity. She’d said it sounded trite, squashing the photographer’s protests with something rather like Percival’s _do not test me_ expression. (Credence was starting to think that was something all the descendants of the original Twelve Aurors could do. Maybe it was something he could learn.)

He liked the photo someone – presumably Verity – had picked instead. The version of himself in the photograph was standing, hands tucked loosely in his pockets. Photo-Credence kept his gaze modestly lowered, a faint blush on his cheeks. Every once in awhile, Photo-Credence looked straight out at the world, lips curving into a smile. He looked happy. Confident.

He looked like a real wizard: like a Graves.

Credence smiled back at the photo and opened the magazine. His gaze went instantly to the quote Verity had chosen to emphasize, the text larger and darker than the rest of the article.

_“My name is Credence Graves. Up until a little over a month ago, I was the second prisoner of a man named Gellert Grindelwald. Before that, I was Credence Barebone, and I had no idea magic existed.”_

 

*

 

_**THE SECOND CAPTIVE**  
Verity MacDuff_

_MACUSA’s Head of Magical Law Enforcement and Director of Magical Security Percival Graves estimates that Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald arrived on U.S. soil in August of 1926, traveling on a No-Maj passport under an assumed name. Grindelwald’s actions in Europe suggested an alarming pattern of escalation, threatening to shatter the International Statute of Secrecy and threatening to begin a war between wizards and No-Maj’s._

_In America, Grindelwald chose to bide his time rather than follow his previous pattern of behavior. He defeated Director Graves in a duel and assumed his identity, choosing to remain hidden until he was exposed and arrested last December. He kept Director Graves alive for the purposes of information and interrogation in order to monitor the international manhunt for himself. In the four months between his arrival and his capture, Grindelwald also took a second captive, whose identity has recently been revealed as No-Maj born wizard Credence Barebone._

_Rumors about Grindelwald’s second captive have circulated since the dark wizard’s arrest, fueled by Major Investigations flat “no comment” responses to any and all inquiries. Public speculation has identified the second captive as a collaborator: as Director Graves’ jailer, or as one of Grindelwald’s fanatics, and potentially even as Grindelwald’s own son, just to name a few of the more unflattering theories. The kinder ones labeled the second captive another high-ranked MACUSA official, or perhaps as Grindelwald’s victim, subject to the sort of cruelty too obscene to be discussed in print._

_The reality of the matter is much more surprising._

_I met Grindelwald’s second captive at a small cafe in lower Manhattan. His face is instantly recognizable to anyone who saw his recent photo in the_ New York Ghost _– the first and only photo of him on record so far. His handshake is firm, his palms calloused not from wandwork, but years of life as a No-Maj._

_“My name is Credence Graves,” he tells me. “Up until a little over a month ago, I was the second prisoner of a man named Gellert Grindelwald. Before that, I was Credence Barebone, and I had no idea magic existed.”_

_Credence is new to both magic and the wizarding world, having never received a letter from Ilvermorny or from any other institution offering a wizarding education. He seems instead to have fallen through the cracks in the system, and might have lived out his life as a No-Maj had Grindelwald not sought him out._

_“Mr. Grindelwald told me he had a vision,” Credence explains. “That he had the gift of prophecy. He told me he had a vision of a child who needed help; a child he Saw me find. He told me that the child was special – that I was special, and that he would teach me magic once I found the child.” A grimace twists his mouth when he adds, “Mr. Grindelwald lied.”_

_Grindelwald was still impersonating Director Graves when he sought Credence out, narrowly avoiding breaking Rappaport’s Law and breaking the International Statute of Secrecy by virtue of Credence’s own magic – a fact unknown to both of them at the time._

_“He was kind,” Credence says, looking down at his hands. “Kinder than anyone else had ever been, at any rate. He healed me. It was like something out of the Bible. I thought that he had come to save me; that he was my savior, but all he wanted was to use me. When he no longer had a use for me, he was going to cast me aside._

_“And then he said he had another vision and decided I could still be useful to him after all.”_

_Whether or not Grindelwald is actually a Seer is still a matter of debate among Magical Law Enforcement Aurors. There is no evidence to support Grindelwald’s claims, but also none to refute it. Credence, with remarkably Auror-esque logic, simply shrugs when asked about it and points out that it’s enough that Grindelwald believe’s he’s a Seer, since action is fueled by belief. Credence’s adopted mother believed that magic was real and that witches were evil, attempting to turn public No-Maj opinion against the wizarding world despite having no real knowledge of it. Grindelwald believed that he was a Seer, and treated his visions as prophecy._

_What did Grindelwald say was in his vision?_

_“A child,” says Credence. “Not the one he had me looking for. A child yet to be born, one that he could shape in his own image.” He does not do anything to indicate his own unborn child, conceived during his time as Grindelwald’s prisoner. He doesn’t have to. “[Grindelwald] was going to steal Percival’s son and raise him to be a loyal follower.”_

_What followed were months of fear and anguish. Credence, pregnant and therefore “useful” to Grindelwald, was spared the worst of Grindelwald’s attentions. Director Graves had no such protection, frequently drawing the worst of Grindelwald’s ire in an effort to protect Credence and their unborn son._

_“Mr. Grindelwald made Percival beg for everything,” Credence says quietly. “For food – not that there was ever enough of it – for anything that might ease the morning sickness and later, when I got sick, for medicine. We lived at Mr. Grindelwald’s mercy.” His eyes flash when he adds, “Not that [Grindelwald] had any.”_

_Our conversation gradually shifts away from Grindelwald. Any further details risk compromising the ongoing investigation being conducted by Major Investigations, spearheaded by Director Graves, the only MLE official with intimate knowledge of the dark wizard’s proposed plans for wizarding America. Rumor around the Woolworth Building has it that an ICW delegation will be conducting an investigation of their own soon, making any potential leaks an international security risk._

_“Percival would never risk MACUSA or the safety of wizarding America,” Credence says firmly. “As a Graves, I can’t either.”_

_The sentiment is a familiar one. Most descendants of the Twelve are raised to uphold and protect MACUSA’s interests in one way or another. Many families – my own included – look for spouses who will, if not share those values, at least respect them._

_I didn’t expect to hear those values echoed by someone so new to magic._

_Credence smiles, wry, when I point that out. “You can’t separate Percival from MACUSA,” he said. “It’s that much a part of who he is. Trying to change that about him would be like trying to turn back the tide.” He hesitates. “Wizards can’t do that, can they?”_

_I assure him that we can’t, and our conversation shifts to his plans for the future. The Graves family is wealthy enough to afford a whole host of private tutors to ensure that Credence learns everything about our world he should have grown up knowing._

_“I’d like that,” he tells me. “Right now, some friends of mine are teaching me magic.” Credence demonstrates a silent wandless_ lumos, _evidently following in Director Graves’ footsteps. “A formal education would be nice, once I know more of the basics.” He laughs, and lightly caresses his stomach, the gesture unconscious and clearly intended for the comfort of his child. “I’d like to be able to teach my son things, not learn them with him. After that…” He trails off, a surprisingly sharp gleam in his eyes. “I think I’d like to find my own way to serve MACUSA.”_

 

*

 

“I didn’t know you’d talked to Verity,” Credence said later that evening, donning his pajamas for bed. Percival, who threw off heat like a furnace, opted not to wear his pajama shirt to bed and crawled into bed wearing nothing more than his soft sleep pants.

As always, Credence found the sight of Percival’s bare chest somewhat distracting. He did not think he could be blamed his confusion when Percival said, “I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t find a way to work her into my schedule without tipping off the _Ghost,”_ Percival explained. “She asked me a couple of questions via pigeon, and I answered the same way.”

Credence stared at him. He did not think Percival trusted anyone that much outside of Seraphina, Dindrane and his team. After a moment, he pointed that out, wondering if there was some unspoken arrangement amongst the Twelve that meant that they all trusted one another. (He did not think that there was, given what had happened with Wilkinson, but it would have been nice if there had been.)

Percival rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head a little. “You trusted her,” he said. “With us and our son: with our story. I trust you.”

“Merlin,” Credence said, trying out the unfamiliar invocation. He loved Percival so much it hurt. One heart was not meant to hold so much love, especially not one so unused to it as his own was. Percival required a deific sort of love; nothing else was big enough, although that wasn’t going to stop Credence from trying for all the rest of his days.

Percival smiled at him. “Does that surprise you?” he asked.

“No,” Credence said honestly. “Never.” They had come a long way, he thought, from Percival’s immediate, instinctive response to shield him from everything.

“I liked it,” Percival said. “The article. I didn’t expect it to be so …” He frowned, searching for the right word. “Casual.”

“Verity said I ought to talk to her like we were friends,” Credence explained. “Like I was talking to Dorothy, or to Tina or Newt. She said it would be easier for her to get to know me. I guess she decided it was the best way for everyone else to as well.”

Percival hummed thoughtfully. “Smart,” he said. “It makes people feel like they know you.”

“I want them to feel like they know me,” Credence said. “I want them to see me as someone worth listening to.”

Percival pressed a kiss to the side of Credence’s head. “Trust me,” he said. “After that article, all of America’s listening to you.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “What are you going to tell them?”

That I love you, Credence thought. Out loud, he said, “I don’t know if I should tell you. It would ruin the surprise.”

“I hate surprises,” Percival said. “Feel free to tell me.”

Credence laughed at him. Percival pretended to be grumpy about that for a second, but he couldn’t keep up the act for very long.

“I finally got the ICW to agree to the extra security measures,” Percival said. “Grindelwald will be transported back to Europe dosed with the Draught of Living Death. He’ll be gone by the time you get back from Georgia.”

Credence curled into him. Percival had wanted to go with the ICW delegation. Percival believed that between himself and Theseus, they could keep Mr. Grindelwald contained. Credence had not seen Theseus in action, but he trusted Percival’s judgment. If Percival thought Theseus was good enough to deal with Mr. Grindelwald, then Theseus probably was.

Transporting Mr. Grindelwald under the Draught of Living Death had been Percival’s back-up plan. As Credence understood it, the Draught of Living Death was like something out of one of Percival’s stories: a potion that would make Mr. Grindelwald sleep so deeply it would be almost as if he were dead.

Credence liked that plan better, honestly. Mr. Grindelwald couldn’t hurt anyone if he were unconscious.

Soon, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone at all.

“Good,” Credence said firmly.

Percival sighed. “Part of wants to go with them when they leave,” he admitted. There was a hint of quiet misery in his tone, as though the admission were something shameful. “It’s not that I want to leave you – and I wouldn’t, especially not now – but part of me needs to see Grindelwald face justice before I can believe that you’re safe. I need to know that he’s in Azkaban and that he’s never getting out.”

“I wouldn’t be angry with you, if you did,” Credence said carefully. He did not want Percival to go, particularly not so far away, but he understood why Percival felt that he had to. Part of _him_ would feel better knowing that Mr. Grindelwald was behind bars, too. He couldn’t begrudge Percival for wanting to see proof of it with his own eyes.

“I’d be angry with me,” Percival said. “So would everyone else I know. Theseus and Seraphina and Dindrane would murder me, and Jacob and Goldstein would feed me to Newt’s creatures. Hell, Collins and his wife would probably help.”

“The animal smells in Newt’s case upset Dorothy’s stomach,” Credence disagreed. “Alex would help, though. So would Queenie.”

Percival winced. “I forgot about Goldstein the Younger,” he admitted.

That seemed foolish to Credence, but judging from Percival’s expression, he knew what a mistake it was to underestimate Queenie. Queenie’s bright smiles and bubbly demeanor hid a witch with a core of steel, every bit as formidable and unyielding as her sister.

“It’s going to be alright,” Credence said instead.

“You know,” Percival said, sounding surprised. “I really think it will be.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count jumped; I really thought I could finish this in one more chapter and an epilogue. Turns out it's more like one large chapter split into Part A and Part B and an epilogue. Part B is going up in one week come hell or high water though.
> 
> My apologies to Georgia and all who live there for any inaccuracies. My version of wizarding Georgia was largely inspired by [stories of the settlements](https://www.npr.org/2014/12/28/373519521/fleeing-to-dismal-swamp-slaves-and-outcasts-found-freedom%22) of the [Great Dismal Swamp maroons.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Dismal_Swamp_maroons) With JKR's version of wizarding America being what it is, it made sense that wizards might choose to settle where No-Maj's wouldn't think to look if they had the opportunity to do so. (And if it's one thing the US has got, it's space.) I imagine swamps are a pretty decent place to build a settlement/hide if you've got magic to help deal with insects, predators and other hardships.

The Woolworth Building was almost as impressive as the Library. Credence wished that he had a bit more time to look around. Percival swept him through the foyer, all dark marble and gilded edges, past the statues and beneath something that looked like a barometer and was probably far more important, or it wouldn’t have been hanging in the center of the building. Queenie had told him that the wizarding version of the Woolworth Building had far more stories than the No-Maj one, and Tina had backed her up on that. Credence risked a look upwards and stared, dizzy, wondering if the Woolworth Building was like the Tower of Babel, stretching upwards into the heavens as if daring God Himself to strike it down.

“Wow,” he said, following Percival into an elevator.

Percival raised both eyebrows at him. “Wow?” he repeated.

Credence resisted the urge to sigh. “Of course _you’re_ not impressed,” he said. “You see this sort of thing every day. I bet you don’t even notice it anymore, do you?”

The doors to the elevator shut behind them, and the creature manning the elevator snorted in wry derision. “He’s got _your_ number.”

“He’s marrying me,” Percival said. “He’d better. Good morning, Red. The Pentagram Office, please.”

“Director,” the house elf said. He was wearing a uniform, which Newt said was unusual for house elves. Clothing was, apparently, a sign that a house elf had been dismissed from service in England. American elves were a bit different; the uniform meant that they’d bound themselves in service to an organization or an institution rather than a single family. They were technically free; their service given willingly.

Kind of like Percival, Credence thought.

Percival went to one knee so he could look the house elf in the eye, as an equal. “Red, I’d like you to meet my fiancé,” he said, looking up at Credence. “This is Credence.”

Red eyed Credence, his craggy face suspicious. Credence wondered if he ought to kneel as well – surely it would be polite – but Red waved him off when he started to.

“Don’t kneel on my account,” he told Credence. “It’ll take youse forever to get up again in your condition, and the Director will fuss.”

Percival rolled his eyes but didn’t disagree with Red, probably because he knew Red was right.

“It’s nice to meet you, Red,” Credence said politely, offering Red a hand to shake. Red did, his grip every bit as firm as a human’s, for all that he was a third of Credence’s size.

“Red’s worked for MACUSA since I was a boy,” Percival said.

“You were a little hellion,” Red said, a hint of fondness beneath his outward annoyance. He indicated Credence’s belly with a tilt of his head. “Think that one’s going to follow in his father’s footsteps?”

“Red,” Percival snapped in rebuke.

Red huffed. “If he doesn’t already know everyone ‘round here believes in your family’s hype, he’s an idiot.” He turned an approving look on Credence. “You put too much thought into that interview to be an idiot.”

“I hope he does,” Credence told Red. “Maybe not with the little hellion part, but I’d like it if he wanted to follow in Percival’s footsteps.”

Red grunted in response. But approvingly, Credence thought.

“The Pentagram Office,” Red announced, opening the elevator doors.

“Thank you,” Credence said.

Red looked startled to be thanked. “You’re welcome.”

“I think he liked you,” Percival mused, as the doors shut behind them.

“Do you think he’d tell me stories about you, if I asked?” Credence wondered.

“Er,” said Percival.

“You said he’s worked for MACUSA since you were a boy, didn’t you?” Credence continued, merciless. “I bet he’s got _lots_ of stories about the kind of mischief you got up to when you were a child.”

“You don’t need to hear those,” Percival said, clinging to his dignity.

“He absolutely needs to hear those,” Seraphina said, coming out of her office. There was a desk situated in front of it like a sentinel, and Seraphina paused to lean against it, regarding Percival and Credence with a warm smile.

The man sitting behind the desk closed a ledger and sighed. Credence thought about the stories about St. Peter and the gates of heaven, waiting to turn the unworthy aside, and realized that this must be Marco Ramirez, Seraphina’s secretary.

“If you ask nicely,” Seraphina confided, “Marco has stories, too.”

Credence looked at Mr. Ramirez. Mr. Ramirez’s expression was impressively wooden, betraying none of his thoughts. Credence honestly couldn’t tell if he wanted to be escorting Credence to Georgia or not.

He resolved not to bother Mr. Ramirez overmuch, just in case.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

Mr. Ramirez held his hand out for Credence to shake. “Marco Ramirez,” he said.

“Credence Graves,” said Credence, which got a flicker of – something. Surprise, maybe? Credence wished Newt and Jacob were with him. Newt was an expert in all sorts of creatures and would probably be able to read Mr. Ramirez’s body language, and Jacob could make friends with _anyone._

Mr. Ramirez looked at Seraphina, whose smile went a little smug around the edges. He sighed again.

“Ramirez will keep you safe,” Percival said, tucking Credence’s magically shrunken luggage into his coat pocket. “Give my regards to Grandmama Genevieve. Tell her I’ll visit when things are more settled.”

He’d said all that already, but it seemed to comfort him to say them again.

“I will,” Credence promised, leaning in for a kiss. It went on for longer than was probably decent, but he couldn’t help clinging to Percival. Halfway through it, Percival’s left hand dropped to his belly as he fed his magic into the androgenesis spells to keep Credence from getting Portkey sick.

Mr. Ramirez cleared his throat.

“Percival,” Credence managed, blushing fiercely. At some point, he thought, he and Percival were really going to have to sit down and discuss seemly displays of affection – especially in front of their friends and Percival’s colleagues. He suspected this discussion would involve a lot of Credence very reasonably pointing out the boundaries of appropriate behavior while Percival nodded agreeably and then proceeded to do whatever he wanted anyway.

He was sort of looking forward to that.

Percival made a grumbling noise of protest and let him go. “Take care of them, Marco. Please.”

Mr. Ramirez inclined his head. He gestured to a book sitting on his desk. “That’s our Portkey,” he told Credence, hand hovering above it.

Credence reached for the book, waiting for Mr. Ramirez’s signal to touch it.

Seraphina kissed his cheek. “Give that to Grandmama from me,” she said. “Now go.”

Credence and Mr. Ramirez set their hands on the book, and the world vanished.

 

*

 

Traveling by Portkey was just as disorienting as traveling by Apparition, although at least with Percival’s magic still humming through the androgenesis spells the nausea only manifested as mild discomfort rather than vomiting. Credence did not think that was likely to make a good first impression on Mr. Ramirez _or_ Grandmama Genevieve.

It was strange, to be traveling with a stranger who had Percival’s trust so implicitly. He’d traveled with strangers before, but they were strangers he felt like he knew: Alex from Percival’s stories about his team and Tina because she’d tried to save him from Ma. They’d been strangers, yes, but familiar ones.

Mr. Ramirez wasn’t familiar at all. He didn’t really know anything about Mr. Ramirez, except that Percival trusted him with Seraphina’s life.

There was probably no higher compliment than that. Seraphina was Percival’s chosen queen and had been since both of them were ten years old. Percival valued Seraphina’s life above his own, the proof of his fealty written on his skin in his scars and the lines etched around his eyes, the silver in his hair. (Credence had not dared to ask Percival about his scars, because Percival was always so careful about not asking Credence about his own. He probably already knew, but that did nothing to change how careful he was with Credence: how kind. The least Credence could do was return the favor. Tina was the one to tell him about the scar on Percival’s back, genuinely surprised that he didn’t already know the story. It looked like someone had shot Percival because someone had; magic wasn’t a foolproof guarantee against bullets.)

Mr. Ramirez pulled a silver flask from his suit pocket and held it out to Credence.

“No, thank you,” Credence told him, assuming it was alcohol. He did not think having spirits on his breath was likely to make a good first impression either, if what Percival had said about Grandmama Genevieve’s manners was any indicator.

Mr. Ramirez made an amused noise. “It’s lemon water,” he said. He was a remarkably soft-spoken man – a little like Newt, Credence thought – for all that his voice was a deep baritone. “Graves thought you’d appreciate it.” He didn’t smile, exactly, but something about his eyes suggested that he was smiling anyways. “He fusses.”

“Oh,” said Credence, taking the flask. He took a quick drink, marveling at Percival’s forethought and care. “Thank you.”

Mr. Ramirez shrugged and took a drink of his own. “Portkeying across different time zones is hard on everyone,” he observed.

“It’s so much warmer here,” Credence marveled. It still wasn’t warm, of course, but it was far warmer than it was in New York. His heavy wool coat felt a bit too heavy, now that he was thinking about it.

It helped that they were in some sort of station. It looked a bit like Grand Central Station in New York, albeit on a much smaller scale and with only one set of railroad track. They were standing on a platform just inside the station, which bustled with all the noise and magic Credence associated with wizarding New York.

“Welcome to wizarding Georgia,” Mr. Ramirez said, heading for the wide double doors. A strange lizard-like creature had been carved into the white stone above the doors. Credence thought it was just an ordinary carving, until it moved its head and _winked_ at him.

Credence followed him out of the station, surprised to find it surrounded by strange scraggly-looking trees and water so dark it looked like coffee. The whole station – the whole _city,_ he realized – had been built on top of the water. He watched, amazed, as Mr. Ramirez strode out into the water and remained standing above it.

Mr. Ramirez could walk on water. There was no reason for that to seem any more miraculous than any of the other wonders of the wizarding world, but the small, stunted part of Credence that still clung to his faith because he’d had nothing else for so long found it so wondrous it took his breath away.

He thought again of Saint Peter, who had tried to walk on water and managed only a few steps before his courage and his faith failed him.

Mr. Ramirez did not seem to have any such problems. He made it three feet before he realized that Credence wasn’t following him and turned back. “Credence?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“I – it’s stupid,” said Credence. “It’s just – _you can walk on water.”_

Credence had not thought of the Bible or his faith in ages. He had other things to sustain him, now. He had other things, period.

He had Percival. Perhaps it was Percival’s absence that made him react like a No-Maj.

Mr. Ramirez looked around at everyone else. There were dozens of people walking on the water, ducking in and out of shops that emerged from the trees as though they’d been grown from them. Maybe they had. Credence could not see any sidewalks or streets, but this was clearly some kind of well-traveled thoroughfare, as obvious as any in New York.

“You can too,” he said. “If you want to give it a try.”

Credence bit his lip, his sense of wonder warring with Ma’s voice, telling him that this was blasphemy, along with other, viler things.

He flinched.

“Or we could Apparate,” Mr. Ramirez said, mistaking his expression.

Credence set his jaw, stubborn. He didn’t have to listen to Ma anymore. She was dead and he wasn’t, and no one was allowed to hurt him ever again.

He stepped out into what he hoped was the street, half-expecting to find himself knee-deep in cold water.

It was like stepping onto a sidewalk made of glass. The brackish water was clearly visible beneath his feet, but whatever he was standing on felt as firm as stone.

Credence took another step, attempting to watch his feet as he did so. His child-round belly made that a lot harder than it needed to be, so Credence switched to watching Mr. Ramirez instead. Mr. Ramirez appeared to be standing on the same glass sidewalk, a good foot above both the water and the vegetation. Credence hadn’t noticed that before, distracted as he was by the miracle.

“Wow,” he breathed.

If ever there was proof that magic wasn’t evil, surely this was it. Ma said magic was the devil’s work and that anyone who used it was one of the devil’s folk, bound for eternal damnation. She was wrong about that, just like she’d been wrong about a lot of other things, because with magic you got miracles. With magic, anything was possible, just as the Scriptures said it was with God.

Maybe wizards were God’s folk instead. Not angels, of course, because that thought was uncomfortably close to blasphemy even in the privacy of his own head, but surely closer to them than anyone else he’d ever met.

Mr. Ramirez stared at him, dark eyes thoughtful. Credence looked away, embarrassed. He wasn’t in New York, where Tina said the tourists always stared. This was wizarding Georgia. Maybe the rules were different here.

“It’s different here,” Mr. Ramirez said, following Credence’s thoughts so closely that Credence wondered for a moment if he was like Queenie. Credence knew that he wasn’t; Percival would have warned Credence if he was. “In New York – especially in the city – the wizards who came before us built our world into the spaces in between the No-Maj parts; the places No-Maj’s don’t ever think to look.”

“That’s why the Woolworth Building has so many floors,” Credence realized. Ordinary folk saw what they thought was the top of the building and never went looking for anything else. He certainly hadn’t, before he knew he was a wizard. It hadn’t even occurred to him to _look._

The thought made him feel strangely sad. Wizards had magic and could perform actual real-life miracles, and they were so afraid of ordinary folk that they built their whole world in places no one else would think to look.

He was starting to think that Rappaport’s Law hurt more than just people like him and Modesty, or the No-Maj born wizards who had to hide their new world from their old one. Maybe Rappaport’s Law hurt everyone. Fear wasn’t supposed to be the norm; Credence knew that better than anyone.

Mr. Ramirez made a rumbling noise of agreement. It wasn’t like Percival’s rumbling noises, which Credence found overwhelmingly masculine and rather more appealing than he should have. It was more like a placeholder noise to indicate the shape of a word without actually having to use one.

“Georgia’s bigger than New York,” Mr. Ramirez said, starting to walk again. Credence hurried to catch up. “The wizards here didn’t need to build in the in between spaces; they built in the places no one wanted to go instead. Not if they had anywhere else to go. There are wizarding places in the cities, but it’s easier to hide a wizarding city in the swamps than a wizarding neighborhood in a city. Easier to monitor, too.”

“It’s bigger than I expected it to be,” Credence admitted. Wizarding New York felt like New York, but this felt like an actual city: a wizarding place just for wizards. The shops growing from the trees were stately, the architecture of them as old and as dignified as anything back in New York. They were made of wood rather than concrete, and all the more beautiful for how natural it all looked.

Now that he was looking, he could see that the trees and shops were laid out like city blocks, with wide open spaces of glass sidewalk in between to serve as roads. It was obvious to Credence, who knew nothing about how cities were built, that someone had put a lot of careful thought and planning into this one.

“Wait until you see what it’s like farther west,” Mr. Ramirez told him.

“Is that where you’re from?” Credence asked.

“Tucson, Arizona,” confirmed Mr. Ramirez. “It’s easier for No-Maj’s to settle in the desert than it is in the swamps, but there’s enough space out there for all of us.”

“I’d like to see that,” Credence said. He’d have to ask Percival if that was someplace they could go once Mr. Grindelwald had been dealt with. He liked the thought of a place where there was room for everyone whether they had magic or not. He knew better than to think that meant that wizards and No-Maj’s lived together in harmony, but maybe someday they could.

Mr. Ramirez glanced back at him, his expression unreadable. Credence wished again for Newt and Jacob, certain they would know what to do or say to make things less awkward.

“This way,” Mr. Ramirez said, turning down one of the side streets. “There’s a car waiting for us.”

 

*

 

Cars were, perhaps, the one No-Maj invention besides Jacob’s cooking that rivaled anything the wizarding world had to offer. Credence had never dreamed of going so _fast,_ watching the buildings and the trees whip by at the impossible speed of thirty whole miles per hour. Best of all, traveling by car didn’t require magic, so it didn’t upset the baby or his stomach in the slightest. It was the one form of transportation outside of walking he could partake in without having to bother anyone for anything.

“Is it very hard to learn to drive?” Credence asked.

“No,” Mr. Ramirez said. “It’s quite simple.”

“Do you think – would you mind it very much if I asked you to teach me?” Credence asked.

“You could try asking,” Mr. Ramirez pointed out.

Credence took that as a no, he wouldn’t mind at all. “Please,” he said. “Would you teach me to drive?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Ramirez. His impassive expression did not change, but Credence thought that he was pleased.

“Thank you,” Credence said.

That got him an actual smile. It was a tiny thing, but still. Credence felt like cheering to see it. He didn’t need Newt and Jacob after all. (He still would have preferred it if they’d been with him, though.)

Mr. Ramirez drove them to an enormous house a half hour outside of the city. The house itself was painted a pretty pale blue, and looked like it could have easily contained two and a half safe houses. Climbing vines with dark oval leaves climbed up the columns on the front porch and hung down from the eaves, giving the house the same grown-from-nature look as the shops back in the city. A faint sweet scent hung on the breeze when Credence got out of the car, marveling all over again at how warm it was compared to New York.

A woman stepped through the front doors a second later, heading down the steps of the house to greet them. She was slender and tall for a woman, her skin several shades darker than Seraphina’s. She wore a midnight blue dress, simple and elegant. She smiled when she saw Credence and Mr. Ramirez.

He could see Seraphina in her smile.

“Marco,” she said warmly, going to Mr. Ramirez first. “It’s been too long.”

“I know,” Mr. Ramirez said, enveloping her in a hug. “Work. I’m sorry.”

Seraphina’s grandmother made a scoffing noise at him. “It’s always work with you.” She pulled away, moving towards Credence. “You must be Credence. Come here, child. Let me get a look at you.” She cupped his face in her hands, drawing him down to press a kiss to his forehead. Her skin was paper-thin with age and smelled of violets, a soft floral scent that lingered the way that Seraphina’s perfume did. She tweaked the tie Percival had insisted that he wear with something like Seraphina’s crooked grin. It was the same tie he’d worn to dinner at the Luminaria, the blue one with MACUSA’s flag-and-eagle symbol embroidered on it in silver thread. “Percival picked this, didn’t he?”

“Not originally?” Credence ventured. “But he thought I should wear it today.”

“Boy never did learn to be subtle,” Mrs. Picquery sighed.

Credence wanted to protest that and realized he couldn’t. _Subtle_ was not a word that appeared in Percival’s vocabulary.

“Um,” he said. “No, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” she scoffed. “Call me Grandmama.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, reflexive. “Grandmama,” Credence corrected himself, hoping he didn’t sound like a complete idiot.

Grandmama smiled at him. “Welcome home, child,” she said. “Please, come in.”

She led Credence and Mr. Ramirez into the house, which was finer than any home Credence had ever seen. Credence didn’t know how wealthy No-Maj’s lived, but he bet even the Rockefeller’s didn’t live anywhere half so nice. The furniture was clearly hand carved, the wood smooth and dark; the upholstery soft and plush. The colors were still rich, unfaded by time. Everywhere he looked there were photos and portraits; men and women with dark skin, like Grandmama, and some like Seraphina, too. They studied him with frank interest, so Credence stared back just as curiously.

Grandmama caught him looking. “We’d all given up on hoping for great-grandbabies,” she confided.

“Great-great-great-grandbabies, in some cases,” a woman in one of the portraits said. Her curly hair was pinned into an elaborate style, draped with pearls and other glittering jewels. Her skirts were full and round, and Credence was absolutely never telling anyone he thought it looked like she was wearing some sort of frosted cake.

The woman in the portrait sighed. “I told you you should have married that girl off when that Yankee boy came sniffin’ round,” she said.

A man two portraits over sniffed loudly. “As if any damn Yankee’s good enough for a Picquery girl. She’d have gone North!”

“She went North anyway, you damn fool,” the first woman said.

“Don’t you call me a fool, you –”

_“Silencio,”_ said Grandmama. “They’ll carry on like that all day if you let them,” she told Credence.

“Is Percival the Yankee boy they’re talking about?” Credence asked.

Grandmama looked amused. “Yes. Oh, it would have been a fine match, to be sure, the Graves bloodline and the Picquery one. Vivian and I hoped they might make a match of it for a time, but it wasn’t to be.”

Mr. Ramirez snorted. “That was pretty obvious by the time they were twelve,” he pointed out.

“Shush, you,” chided Grandmama. “It wasn’t obvious to _me.”_

Mr. Ramirez caught Credence’s eye over Grandmama’s shoulder. _It was really obvious,_ he mouthed.

Credence had to swallow his laugh, not wanting to be disrespectful.

Grandmama eyed Mr. Ramirez, clearly aware that he’d said _something._ “Just for that, you can fetch the tea,” she told him.

Mr. Ramirez inclined his head and wandered off, leaving Credence alone with Grandmama.

“Seraphina wanted me to give you a kiss,” Credence blurted, more for something to say than anything else.

Oh, God, he probably did sound like a complete idiot. Why was meeting Dindrane so much easier? He’d been sick with cramps and nauseous to the point of vomiting when he’d met Dindrane, and it still felt like that had gone better.

“Relax, boy. I don’t bite,” Grandmama said, cutting through his rising anxiety.

“Oh, God,” Credence muttered. “Merlin,” he corrected. He was a wizard. He probably ought to swear like one. “I’m sorry, I’m just – nervous, I suppose. I’ve never met anyone’s family before now, and you _matter_ to Percival. And Seraphina, of course. I wanted to make a good impression.”

“Credence,” Grandmama Genevieve said firmly. “Are you in love with my grandson?”

“Yes, of course,” Credence said, baffled. Underneath his confusion, some part of him liked how easily the world _grandson_ rolled off of Grandmama Genevieve’s tongue, despite their lack of shared blood.

But then, family was more than blood. He’d always known that. He and Modesty were siblings, even if they didn’t share blood.

Ma had never been family, but maybe Grandmama could be.

“Then you could be a bear dressed as a French can-can dancer and I’d still adore you,” she said tartly. “You have my grandson’s heart. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along?”

Credence shook his head. Part of him desperately wanted to know if there had ever been anyone like him before – if Percival had brought other lovers home to meet his family. It was only a small, unworthy part, though. The rest of him knew that it didn’t really matter; he was the one who got to spend the rest of his life with Percival, after all.

“Twenty years,” Grandmama said. “Almost as long as you’ve been alive.”

“Are you going to start matchmaking again?” Mr. Ramirez inquired, carrying a tray into the living room. The tray had a pitcher with ice and dark liquid – tea of some sort, presumably – and tall glasses rimmed with gold.

Grandmama took the pitcher and poured them all glasses, serving them up with easy grace. She ignored Mr. Ramirez’s question with magnificent aplomb.

Credence took a glass from her and sipped it. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted – sweeter than hot chocolate and a good number of Jacob’s confections. He set it down carefully, not quite sure what to make of it.

“If you’re going to start matchmaking again, the least you could do is give me a bit of advance warning,” Mr. Ramirez said, reproachful. “I’d like to schedule a vacation.”

“You’re on vacation,” she told him.

“I’m here to make sure Credence is safe. That’s work,” Mr. Ramirez corrected.

“A working vacation,” Grandmama countered.

Mr. Ramirez sighed. “You _are_ going to start matchmaking again. You know how much she hates that.” To Credence, he said, “The other eleven families gave up on trying to snare Graves early on. Seraphina was more diplomatic about her rejections, so it took them longer to take a hint. And _then_ the coven decided that Seraphina needed a nice trophy husband to advance her political career, so they paraded every nice Southern boy with a decent background out like livestock.”

“They weren’t _livestock,”_ Grandmama said, indignant.

“Seraphina threw a fit,” Mr. Ramirez confided. “She declared she wasn’t looking for a spouse or a stud and had no interest in playing broodmare to the next generation of Picquery’s until her political career had advanced significantly farther. Percival had some things to say about the matchmaking, too, but it was considerably pithier. Subtle’s never really been his strong suit.”

“Yes,” Credence said, amused. “I know.”

“I’ll teach you the spell to wash his mouth out with soap,” Grandmama promised. “Every wizarding parent ought to know it, although I wager you’ll use it more on that grandson of mine than you ever will on my great-grandbaby.”

“I wouldn’t,” Credence protested automatically.

“Pity,” muttered Mr. Ramirez.

Grandmama did not raise her wand, but something about the way her right hand moved suggested that she wanted to. Mr. Ramirez subsided, a faint smile etched into the crow’s feet around his eyes.

Credence watched them both, fascinated. Drawing a wand had to be like drawing a weapon; it would be rude to threaten someone with it unless you meant it. Also, a good way to get accidentally hurt or killed. The _suggestion_ of drawing one without actually doing so intrigued him; was that part of wizarding etiquette too, like passing someone your wand hilt first?

Grandmama caught him watching and smiled. “Seraphina said you had questions,” she said. “What did you want to know?”

Everything, Credence thought.

“I want – I _need_ – to know the rules,” he said. “Proper high society etiquette. Wizarding etiquette in general, really.” Credence looked at her hopefully. “Percival said that no one could teach me better than you could. Would you? Please?”

“Dear child, by the time I’m done with you, everyone you meet will think you’ve been born and raised one of us,” she promised.

 

*

 

“Percival,” Theseus said, clearly holding onto his temper with both hands, “if you don’t untwist your fucking knickers, I will knock your damn teeth down your throat.”

Graves bared the aforementioned teeth at him. “You can fucking _try.”_

“I can do a lot better than just _try,_ mate, and you know it.”

That was, unfortunately, true. Theseus was a better duelist than Graves was, but Graves was better at physical violence. He honestly wasn’t sure which one of them would win if they fought.

“Oh, for the love of little green apples,” said Goldstein. She transfigured a sheet of paper into a tailor’s tape measure and dropped it onto the table between Graves and Theseus.

Graves raised an eyebrow at her.

Goldstein flushed and folded her arms across her chest, defiant.

Gaarder glanced down at the tape measure and chuckled. “Well put, Auror Goldstein,” she murmured.

“I’m not following,” Theseus said. He was, actually, but Graves suspected he was the only one who knew Theseus well enough to realize that.

Graves made a mental note to smack Theseus for being mean to his rookie.

Goldstein went even redder, but she held her ground. “It’s a measuring tape,” she said helpfully.

“Yes, I can see that, thank you,” Theseus said, deliberately obtuse.

“If you’re going to insist on having some sort of – of _measuring contest,_ then you might as well get it over with.”

Graves bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. Merlin and Morgana, he was glad he’d stolen Goldstein back from the wand permit office. She’d been wasted there.

“Oh,” said Theseus. The gleam in his eyes suggested he was planning to fuck with someone. “Well. If you insist.” His hands went to the his belt, the metal buckle jangling cheerfully as he unfastened it.

_“Not in public, Director Scamander!”_ Gaarder snapped.

“I dunno,” said Hughes. “This show looks like it might be worth the price of admission. Boss, you feel like dropping trou?”

“Not particularly,” Graves said dryly. “You lot wouldn’t respect me in the morning. Also, my fiancé wouldn’t approve.”

Mentioning Credence was a mistake. It just reminded Graves that Credence was in Georgia, and that the safe house felt cold and empty in his absence, even with Newt and Jacob and all of Newt’s damned creatures. (Graves liked Cecil the niffler, even if the little beast _did_ keep stealing his cufflinks. Graves had tried a number of different wards to keep the niffler out, but Cecil kept getting through them. Graves found that intriguing for purely selfish reasons; if he could manage to replicate the niffler’s escape artist tendencies, he could make sure that no prison would hold him for very long ever again.)

It was strange. Graves had relished in his quiet solitude, before. Before Grindelwald; before Credence. He hadn’t objected to the occasional bit of physical comfort a bedpartner could provide, but as those had been fewer and farther between than he’d cared to admit to, Graves hadn’t exactly been pining for human company. The brownstone, large as it was, had never seemed empty, echoing with silence where a much beloved voice should have rung.

Credence had been in Georgia for two days now. It was the longest they’d been apart since Credence had gotten pregnant.

Graves missed him more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t really need to. He was fairly certain that it was blatantly, pathetically obvious that he missed Credence, mostly because he’d reverted to being a complete and utter bastard to everyone else.

Theseus would probably forgive him eventually. Possibly after he’d punched Graves in the head five or six times.

“Neither would your sister,” a familiar voice said.

Graves turned around to greet his brother-in-law, equal parts relieved and worried by Robert’s presence. If Robert was the one to brew the Draught of Living Death, he trusted that it would keep Grindelwald asleep all the way to Azkaban. There were other Potions Masters, of course, but none Graves trusted as much as he trusted Robert. Much as he hated the thought of anyone in his family within a hundred miles of Grindelwald while Grindelwald was still breathing, he needed someone he trusted right now.

Robert had his hands tucked into his winter coat, the dark orange scarf Graves had gotten him for Christmas three years ago wrapped around his neck to stave off the cold. It was a twin to the dark blue one Graves liked to wear; he wasn’t sure what had happened to it. Grindelwald, probably.

Graves held his hand out for Robert to shake. Robert, as ever, took his hand and used it as an excuse to drag Graves into a back-slapping hug. Normally, Robert let him go after a few seconds – just long enough to remind Graves that he was family and that he was loved, or so Robert always claimed – but this time Robert held on for long enough and hard enough that Graves worried that Robert might re-break his ribs.

“You Graves’ are going to be the death of me,” Robert said when he finally let Graves go. His voice was pitched quiet, so no one else could hear him. He raised his hand to ruffle Graves’ hair, the way he used to when he’d been dating Dindrane. He paused when Graves glared at him. Graves had been an Auror trainee when Robert and Dindrane were dating, and while it had stung his dignity then, the action had at least been age appropriate. He wasn’t that kid anymore, and hadn’t been in a long time.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “Old habits.”

It was strange to see Robert’s laughing face so worried and solemn. Robert, like Jacob Kowalski, was made for smiles and good humor. Graves felt bad for worrying him; he really ought to have visited Boston before now, but there just hadn’t been time.

There would be time enough for everything, soon.

“Thank you for coming,” Graves said. “Minister Gaarder, Director Scamander, I’d like you to meet Robert Flores, Head of Potions Development at the Fisher Institute.”

“Your brother-in-law,” Gaarder noted.

“Yes,” Graves said, frowning at her. He’d been up front about his relationship with Robert. Gaarder hadn’t exactly approved, but he thought he at least had her agreement. Had she changed her mind?

Gaarder shook Robert’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flores.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help,” Theseus added.

“I’m happy to help,” Robert informed them both. “Where would you like me to set up?”

“I’ll show you to the labs,” Collins said helpfully.

Gaarder jerked her head, and the junior delegate Garroway trailed behind them both, most likely to verify that the Draught of Living Death had been brewed properly.

Robert was used to shared lab settings. He probably wouldn’t mind the audience.

Probably.

It was entirely possible Graves was going to hear about this at Thanksgiving and Christmas for the next decade. Graves found that he didn’t mind the thought as much as he should have. Listening to Robert complain was preferable to one or both of them not being around for the complaint.

Graves tossed the tape measure back at Goldstein. “I don’t think this will be necessary, Goldstein,” he told her.

“Another time, perhaps,” Theseus said, waggling his eyebrows at Goldstein.

Graves honestly couldn’t tell if he was trying to be flirtatious or teasing. He suspected it was the latter, since Theseus had a vested interest in Newt’s marital prospects and likely wouldn’t have ever dreamed of trying to woo one of Newt’s paramours away from him. The teasing was, in all likelihood, Theseus’ way of welcoming her into the family.

Theseus was just as awkward as Newt was sometimes. He was just a lot better at hiding it.

Goldstein was going to hex him again if Theseus wasn’t careful. Her expression suggested that she also didn’t know whether or not Theseus was flirting or teasing, but that it was pissing her off regardless.

“You might want to fix your belt,” Goldstein informed Theseus tartly.

“Hm? Oh, dear,” Theseus said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“That’s because you’re shameless,” Graves said fondly.

“Says the kettle to the cauldron,” retorted Theseus.

“Do you know,” Gaaarder mused. “I am starting to think the two of you ought not be allowed within a hundred kilometers of one another.”

“You’re not the first commanding officer we’ve had make that suggestion,” Theseus admitted.

“I did not think I was,” Gaarder said flatly. Her voice was only fractionally warmer when she greeted Dumbledore. “Hello, Professor.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all in the last two days. Dark circles lingered beneath his eyes, which were devoid of their usual twinkle. “Minister Gaarder,” he said, deferential and polite.

Oh, fuck, Graves thought. Dumbledore had finally made up his mind about whether or not he wanted to see Grindelwald.

Gaarder stared at Dumbledore, her own bright blue eyes thoughtful. Then she inclined her head, every bit as queenly as Seraphina. “I will allow it,” she said. “Provided Director Graves agrees.”

Graves bit back his instinctive response, which was _absolutely fucking not, are you out of your damn mind?_

Dumbledore turned pleading eyes on Graves, his expression raw and wounded. Grindelwald had hurt him, once. Would hurt him again, if Graves failed in his duty and Grindelwald got his way. Graves could understand the need for closure. It was not so very different from what _he_ wanted, after all. Graves’ variety of closure was simply more permanent than most people preferred.

Shit, thought Graves. I’m going to regret this.

“Did you agree to terms?” he asked Gaarder.

“I must be present,” Gaarder told him. “As must you.”

“Present for what?” Theseus asked suspiciously.

“Not here,” Graves told him. “You agreed to the terms?” Graves asked Dumbledore.

Dumbledore nodded.

“Oh, hell,” said Theseus, putting two and two together. Graves was not sure what number he wound up at, but he clearly didn’t like it.

Theseus was a pragmatist, though. He always had been. Letting Dumbledore see Grindelwald might damage Grindelwald’s composure enough that they could get something useful out of him before they put him under for transport.

Graves eyed him, checking for signs of disapproval. Theseus made an impatient face in return, not quite rolling his eyes. 

“Alright then,” Graves sighed. “If we’re all in agreement. I’m adding conditions of my own, though. If it looks like your presence will start an incident, you’re out,” he told Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore nodded again. “I expected as much.”

Dumbledore was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Graves suspected the man would have been happier if he was. Genius was its own burden, sometimes.

“And if it looks like there’s a threat to civilian life, I’m not waiting for the ICW delegation,” Graves added, voice so quiet only Gaarder and Theseus could hear him. “I’ll cast the Killing Curse myself if I have to.”

“That is not advisable,” Gaarder said.

“I don’t think he gives a fuck, Brunnhilde,” Theseus pointed out. “Am I allowed to join in, or is this an invite only party?”

“Your presence would be welcome,” said Gaarder.

“Wonderful,” said Graves. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

 

*

 

Grindelwald tilted his head to one side and considered Theseus and Graves, his expression cold and calculating.

“Well,” he said. “If it isn’t my favorite pair of heroes.”

Graves resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The jokes about their names were getting old, and to add insult to injury, they weren’t even all that original. They’d heard them from every commanding officer who thought he was clever _and_ every cheeky subordinate during the war.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Grindelwald purred, his tone at odds with the look in his eyes. He was clearly in one of his manic phases, except he didn’t have the option of torturing Graves until he got bored.

Theseus leaned back against the wall, hazel eyes gone winter-cold. “We’re not here for you,” he said.

Grindelwald spread his bound hands out to argue his point, rattling the chain between the cuffs for dramatic emphasis. The chain was looped through a ring on the table, a precaution they’d installed just for him.

The door to the interrogation room opened again. Dumbledore stepped in, all his affable charm stripped away. Under the interrogation room’s harsh lighting, he looked even worse: sick to the point of vomiting and shaking with minute tremors. He was terrified.

Grindelwald startled as soon as Dumbledore stepped into the room, half-rising out of his chair before the chain between his wrists pulled taut against the ring on the table and dragged him back down again. He sat down again hard, mouth pressed into an unforgiving line.

Dumbledore took the seat across from him as Gaarder entered the room, closing the door behind herself and leaning against it. She had one hand resting on the hilt of her wand the way a knight would touch her sword: in readiness rather than a threat. Nothing was getting past Gaarder unless she let it.

Dumbledore said nothing. He just stared at Grindelwald, unblinking. Graves honestly wasn’t sure if he was still breathing, he was so still.

_I want to remember him for who he is, not who he was,_ Dumbledore had said.

A muscle in Grindelwald’s jaw tensed. For once, he had nothing glib or catty to say. The silence stretched on between them, so fraught with all the things neither of them were saying that it was like listening to someone scream.

Graves wondered, for the first time, just when and how Grindelwald and Dumbledore had met. They must have both been young, if they’d been fascinated by the Hallows; that was a myth for young men and sheltered academics. Graves hadn’t thought of it since he was a boy – not since before his father died. He could not imagine what it was like, seeing someone he’d loved as a young man turn into something twisted and dark.

If it was Seraphina sitting there, what would he have done?

It wasn’t Seraphina, though. It would never be Seraphina. Of the two of them, Graves knew himself well enough to admit that _he_ was the more likely candidate to be sitting in magic suppressing cuffs for crimes against the wizarding world. If he’d taken a darker path after his father died, he could have wound up in Grindelwald’s place.

He hadn’t, though. His father had raised him better than that. And if his father’s teachings had failed, Seraphina and Dindrane would have walked into hell in order to kick his ass and drag him back out again.

“Hello, Gellert,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Grindelwald inhaled sharply, absorbing the words like a blow. “Hello, Albus,” he said.

Graves wanted, very badly, to hustle Dumbledore out of the room and demand that Grindelwald answer his questions. He was fairly certain that Grindelwald _would,_ as long as Graves promised to bring Dumbledore back.

Too late now, he thought. Grindelwald was being transferred to Azkaban under the ICW’s authority. He was their collar now. Graves would have to dismantle Grindelwald’s American empire on his own.

“I had hoped to see you under better circumstances,” Grindelwald said, as though they were old friends meeting unexpectedly at a dinner party.

“I had hoped never to see you again at all,” Dumbledore countered.

If the words hurt, Grindelwald gave no sign of it. He’d expected that, Graves realized. Dumbledore was the wizard Grindelwald considered more powerful than anyone, second only to Grindelwald himself. Grindelwald wanted Dumbledore to bear his child, but he’d known all along that Dumbledore wanted nothing to do with him, no matter how much he’d hoped otherwise.

“Why have you come, then, Albus?” Grindelwald asked. For once, his use of someone’s given name didn’t seem deliberately familiar. Graves thought he might be using Dumbledore’s first name because he couldn’t make himself stop.

Dumbledore pressed his hands flat against the table, unclenching his fists and revealing bloody half-moon marks on his palms. The gesture only served to highlight how badly he was shaking.

That wasn’t fear, Graves realized. That was rage – more potent even than the rage Graves felt whenever he looked at Grindelwald.

“For my family,” Dumbledore said.

Grindelwald snarled in wordless rage. “Are you still singing that old tune, Albus?”

“Don’t,” Dumbledore commanded. “Don’t you dare, Gellert.”

“I find it interesting that you find your precious _family_ so important now that you’ve none left,” Grindelwald said, his voice gone smoother than silk and sharp as a knife. “Or has Aberforth changed his mind about wanting nothing to do with you?”

Dumbledore flinched.

Aberforth was Dumbledore’s younger brother, Graves remembered. He was the only family Dumbledore had left. Their parents were both dead; the mother in some accident, the father in Azkaban.

“You didn’t want anything to do with your siblings when you had them,” Grindelwald continued. “They weren’t your family, they were your _burden,_ and now that they’re gone – now that you’re free – you still cling to them to excuse your own weakness.”

Siblings. Plural.

What the fuck, Graves thought, because as far as he knew Dumbledore only had the one sibling. He glanced at Theseus, who looked just as lost as he was.

“They were never a burden!” Dumbledore shouted back. “They were a gift! I was a fool for not realizing what I had when I had it, and now I must live with their loss. That means facing the truth, Gellert. _That’s_ why I’ve come here. I have one question to ask of you, and if you ever loved me at all, you’ll answer me honestly.”

“Ask, then,” Grindelwald spat.

“I need to know,” Dumbledore said, his rage fading into something desperate and pleading. “Which one of us was it that cast the spell that killed my sister?”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no words for how sorry I am about how long this has taken. Thank you to everyone who's still with me! I hope your holidays were pleasant and drama/trauma-free.
> 
> I could probably work on this chapter for _another_ freaking month and still not be happy with it. I have no idea how anyone writes fight scenes convincingly. Writing fight scenes where the characters can _literally appear out of thin_ air is the worst. There is so much character _ex machina._
> 
> This chapter contains references to Dumbledore's backstory, which might be spoilery if you haven't read _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows._ It also contains unwanted and unreciprocated drunken advances, a character referring to himself with a racial slur, and Grindelwald being Grindelwald. Message me on tumblr if you would like more specific warnings.

Silence echoed in the wake of Dumbledore’s question. Grindelwald went preternaturally still, much as Dumbledore had earlier. He might have been a monster carved from marble, but for the predatory glittering of his eyes.

“Please,” Dumbledore said.

Grindelwald tilted his head, keeping his eyes on Dumbledore.

“You don’t know,” he said, all his rage and spite draining into something gentler.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No.”

“I thought you did,” Grindelwald said softly, still watching Dumbledore. “You don’t, though, and your ignorance hurts you.”

He rotated his head so that he was staring at Dumbledore like a normal person. Graves had never been able to determine if the gesture was avian or serpentine, but he’d always found it mildly unnerving. When Grindelwald forgot himself – when he wasn’t using Graves’ own mannerisms in a deliberate attempt to be unsettling – his body language was strange and inhuman.

“You’re afraid of the answer,” Grindelwald said.

Dumbledore flinched. “Yes,” he admitted. “For the longest time, I hoped never to face you. I hoped never to learn the truth. But the time for ignorance has past. I am not the boy you knew. Not anymore.”

“There was nothing wrong with the boy you were,” Grindelwald said. His voice was awful in its tenderness, as though he could not bear to hear the boy he’d loved spoken ill of, even by the man that boy had become.

They must have been very young when they’d met, Graves thought. Old enough to think themselves men, but young enough to love one another with all-consuming desperation, the way that any young man in the throes of his first love did.

“Please, Gellert,” Dumbledore begged. “Please, if you ever loved me at all, just answer this one question.”

 _“If_ I ever loved you,” Grindelwald said, voice breaking. His shoulders slumped, rounding with defeat. “You say that so easily. Do you really think me so inconstant?”

“Gellert –”

“I thought you knew me better than that.” Grindelwald closed his eyes. “Very well.”

“You’ll answer me?”

“Yes,” Grindelwald said. “It was –” He choked, eyes flying open with shock. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Grindelwald gagged around the phantom thorns of a Tell No Tales curse, throat working as he tried to spit them out.

Wizarding criminals – Grindelwald included – favored that curse. The full version of the spell would invoke the thorns whenever the victim attempted to speak of a forbidden topic. The partial version of it prevented the victim from speaking at all. Grindelwald had enjoyed using it on Graves. It made their extended torture sessions more amusing.

“What’s happening?” Dumbledore demanded, reaching for Grindelwald.

 _“Petrificus partialus,”_ Graves snapped, pushing Dumbledore’s Petrified form back down into his chair. “Sorry, Professor, but you still can’t touch him. _Finite incantatem,”_ he said, cupping Grindelwald’s jaw in one hand, muttering a healing spell that would slow the bleeding. His healing magic wasn’t strong enough to erase the damage entirely. Someone more qualified would have to see to the rest of it.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gaarder thundered. “What the _hell_ are you playing at, Graves?”

“I’m not _playing_ at anything,” Graves retorted. “If I’d let the Professor touch him, there’s no telling what might’ve happened. Do you _want_ Grindelwald to get free?”

“I want my prisoner to arrive at Azkaban _unharmed,”_ said Gaarder. “What were you thinking?”

“Brunnhilde,” Theseus began.

“Minister Gaarder,” snapped Gaarder.

“Minister Gaarder,” Theseus corrected. “All due respect, ma’am, you can’t think that _Percival_ cursed Grindelwald.”

“He has, as you Aurors like to say, plenty of motive. And means, given that we just witnessed _wandless_ spellcasting. I believe that’s a speciality of yours, isn’t it, Director Graves?”

“You know that it is,” Graves snapped. “Just as you ought to know that I would never compromise MACUSA’s integrity with such an action, but since you don’t, let me be the first to assure you that I would _never_ attempt to harm a prisoner in my custody because it is the duty of an Auror to protect those under their care – not to harm them. To do so would make me no better than _him,”_ Graves added, jerking his chin in Grindelwald’s general direction.

“This interview is over, regardless,” Gaarder informed him. “I’m sorry, Professor, but Grindelwald must be received by the ICW unharmed. We cannot afford impropriety.”

 _“Finite incantatem,”_ Theseus murmured, freeing Dumbledore.

“Gellert,” Dumbledore begged. “Gellert, _please.”_

Grindelwald made a garbled noise in answer. More blood dribbled down his chin.

“Mercy fucking Lewis,” said Graves.

“Get him back to his cell,” commanded Gaarder.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Graves.

 

*

 

The ICW delegation had been staying at the Biltmore, which had a few wizards on staff and a wizards only floor under the heaviest No-Maj repellant charms known to man. Graves had only been there twice: once on a case and once, when he was far younger and considerably stupider, for an intimate encounter with the ambassador from Russia.

What little he remembered of that night was hazy thanks to a very fine bottle of Samodiva-brewed vodka and the Russian ambassador’s hands, but he’d never forgotten the luxurious quality of the beds at the Biltmore. The sheets had a threadcount so high Ariadne herself might have crafted them. He wondered if Credence would like them, and if it would be possible to purchase some for their home.

Some enterprising soul had set up a hotel bar in one of the common rooms, set up to look like a speakeasy. Graves found Dumbledore there, doing his level best to achieve Obliviation via alcohol poisoning.

His hands were still shaking.

Some guys got the shakes after a fight. It was all the leftover adrenaline. Alcohol wasn’t a bad way to bring them back down to earth again – not that it had ever been an option in the trenches – but it didn’t seem to be helping Dumbledore much.

Graves snagged a bottle of Roanoke Vanishing Rye and poured himself a drink, leaving a five dragot coin on the bar for the nonexistent bartender’s troubles. He sat nursing his glass for half an hour before Dumbledore finally sighed and said, “You might as well ask. I know you must have questions.”

Graves sipped his drink. “Legally, MACUSA’s Head of MLE has no right to question or detain a foreign national with no evidence of wrongdoing.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You mentioned that. Forgive me, Director Graves, but you do not strike me as a man who would find mere legality much of an obstacle, should it stand in your way.”

Graves saluted him with his glass, acknowledging the point. “Call it a courtesy, then, from one victim to another.”

Dumbledore shuddered and drained his glass, pouring himself another. “Is that what you think I am? Gellert’s victim?”

“He hurt you,” Graves pointed out. That much was obvious.

“What he did to me was nothing compared to what he did to you,” said Dumbledore. “He didn’t – he never hurt me the way he hurt you.” He gestured to the scar on Graves’ left cheek with his drink, sloshing a bit of it on the bar.

“Physically, maybe,” said Graves. “But that’s not the only way to hurt someone.”

Dumbledore laughed, hollow and gutted. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose not.”

“What happened to your sister?”

“I thought you weren’t going to ask,” Dumbledore said, but the words held no heat.

Graves shrugged. He wanted to know, but it wasn’t why he’d come. He’d meant the question as a kindness. He kept seeing flashes of Credence in Dumbledore – not Credence as he was now: beautiful and strong, certain of Graves’ love and his own heart. Credence as he’d been; as the scared, fragile boy Grindelwald had dragged down the stairs into the basement, constantly braced for the next blow.

Dumbledore stared at him, blue eyes thoughtful. “I suppose if anyone deserves to know, it’s you,” he said eventually. “As a courtesy, from one victim to another.”

There was a faintly sardonic twist to his words that reminded Graves of Grindelwald, proof that whatever else had passed between them, Grindelwald’s influence lingered still.

Loving someone tended to have that effect. Magic knew Graves had absorbed enough of Seraphina’s mannerisms over the years, and vice versa. He wondered, if he’d known Dumbledore a little better, which of his traits he might have seen in Grindelwald.

Graves set his glass down. “I’m listening,” he said.

 

*

 

“I suppose you know what happened to my father,” Dumbledore said.

“He was arrested for breaking the Statue of Secrecy,” replied Graves. “He died in Azkaban.”

“He was arrested for retaliating against the Muggle boys who attacked my sister,” Dumbledore said. He sounded the way that Graves did, when speaking of his own father’s death, his voice was carefully stripped of any emotion. “Ariana was six years old. She never recovered.”

“Shit,” said Graves. He’d dealt with a case like that when he was just starting out as an Auror. No-Maj’s had attacked a young wizard barely out of Ilvermorny, and the boy’s older brother had retaliated.

“At six, Ariana’s magic was accidental. She couldn’t control it. After the attack, she was too frightened to try. She tried her best to repress it, but when she was scared, or angry, or upset, she lost control. It wasn’t her fault,” he added defensively. “It just … it just exploded.”

Fuck. No wonder Major Investigations hadn’t turned up anything about a sister.

Ariana Dumbledore was an Obscurial.

“When my mother died, I became Ariana’s caretaker. Aberforth’s, too, for all that he needed far less care. I loved them, but I was young and selfish and I resented them for it. And then, of course, I met Gellert.”

Of course, thought Graves. He sipped his drink and considered Dumbledore’s story. He rarely trusted such neatly constructed narratives. He was an Auror, being a suspicious bastard was second nature.

“How old were you?” he asked.

“Seventeen,” said Dumbledore.

Tituba’s bones. The well constructed narrative made sense now; Dumbledore had been telling himself this story for almost thirty years.

Dumbledore drained his glass and poured a fresh one. “We had such plans, Gellert and I. We would find the Hollows and remake the world as it _should_ be, so that what happened to my sister would never happen to anyone else ever again.” He glanced at Graves. “Yes,” he said, answering the thought Graves hadn’t voiced. “I realized what he was. I closed my eyes and pretended not to see, soothed my conscience with empty words. It would all be for –”

“The greater good?” Graves finished.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“How does your sister fit into this?”

Dumbledore drank deeply. “My brother was less willing to ignore Gellert’s darker plans. He challenged Gellert – he challenged both of us – and –” His voice broke. “The first time Gellert cast the Cruciatus on my brother, I realized that I could no longer stand by simply because I loved him. I tried to stop him – I tried to stop them both – and Gellert turned on me. We fought, the three of us, and Ariana … Ariana tried to make us stop.” He fell silent.

_Which one of us cast the spell that killed my sister?_

“She got caught in the crossfire,” said Graves.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle.

Graves caught his hand. He plucked the bottle from Dumbledore’s grasp and set it back on the bar. “Your turn,” he said. “Ask.”

“The curse that silenced Gellert. Did you cast it?”

“No,” said Graves.

Dumbledore considered that. He was thinking remarkably clearly for a man with half a bottle of Firewhiskey in his veins. “It seems we’re still in danger, then,” he said.

“Yes,” Graves agreed. He reached into his pocket and placed the shield charm Dumbledore had made for Grindelwald on the bar. “I thought, perhaps, you might like that back.”

That was his true reason for coming here tonight. Shield charms were pure magic given a physical form. It did not seem right to keep a piece of Dumbledore’s.

“Do you know,” Dumbledore said, voice hoarse. “You remind me of him, a little.” He gave Graves a shy, pained smile. “Not as he is, but … the man I wished he’d be. He had your conviction, once.”

“He still does,” said Graves. “He wouldn’t be so dangerous if he didn’t.”

Dumbledore dangled the shield charm by its leather cord, eyes fixed on the rose gold phoenix. He lowered the charm and looked at Graves. “Forgive me, Director, but I fear I am just drunk enough for this.”

“Liquid courage?” Graves inquired.

“Yes, rather,” said Dumbledore. “Do you know what I wish?”

“No.”

“I wish Gellert were more like you. I wish that he’d been honorable and true. I wish … I wish I’d met you, instead.” Dumbledore lurched forward and pressed a kiss to Graves’ startled mouth. It was, all things considered, a terrible kiss: badly executed, the angle all wrong, to say nothing of unwelcome. It was not so much a sexual advance as pure desperation, which was the only thing that kept Graves from punching Dumbledore on reflex.

What the _hell,_ thought Graves.

Dumbledore was just sober enough to recognize he’d crossed a line. “My apologies,” he said.

“You should go back to your room,” Graves said harshly. “Go sleep it off.”

Dumbledore nodded. He was halfway out of the bar when Graves realized he’d slipped the shield charm back in Graves’ pocket.

“Dumbledore –”

“Keep it,” said Dumbledore, and staggered out the door.

 

*

 

Credence crept out of the house on slippered feet, pressing a fist against his breastbone in an effort to alleviate the burning sensation that lingered there. He could see what Percival meant about Grandmama Genevieve’s coven being terrifying, now. Food was not supposed to be so spicy it hurt, but everyone else at the table had cheerfully consumed Mrs. Violetta’s seafood gumbo as if it were one of Jacob’s pastries. He had a sinking suspicion the coven could breathe actual fire if they felt like it. It would explain their immunity to spicy food.

Credence did not see the appeal, honestly. Admittedly, the first bite had been delicious, at least before the spices had kicked in. Grandmama had noticed his plight and ordered one of her servants to bring him a glass of milk, which had helped enough that Credence could finish his dinner.

He hadn’t expected the spices to linger, burning like bile in his chest but without the urge to vomit. Credence almost wished that he could, just to get it over with.

He leaned against the porch railing, listening to the night sounds of the swamp. Wizarding Georgia sounded more natural than wizarding New York. Unfamiliar insects sang, the sound high and strangely metallic, nearly impossible to sleep through unless you were used to it. Further out, away from the house, Credence could hear the rustle of wings and other animals moving in the dark.

Credence curled the hand not pressed against his breastbone around the wand in his pocket, comforted by its presence. It was entirely his own and had been for all of twenty-four hours now, but Credence found it impossible to think about what life had been without it. Magic was so much _easier_ with a wand. He’d grown so used to channeling his magic without one – or with someone else’s – that he hadn’t anticipated how much stronger his magic was with a wand of his own. He’d accidentally created a fireball instead of a light, earlier. (Grandmama claimed that the east sitting room needed to be redecorated anyway, but the displaced Picquery ancestor in the portrait he’d accidentally burned was still following Credence suspiciously from room to room.)

The coven found the whole thing hilarious. Grandmama had gone off to soothe the other portraits while Mrs. Poppy laughed so hard she cried. Mrs. Marie had taught Credence how to adjust how much power he put into a spell, bickering with Mrs. Grace about the proper technique for it the entire time she was teaching him. Mrs. Violetta had ignored all of them and explained the fundamentals of proper wand care. Because, as she said, any wand of _hers_ deserved to be treated properly.

Credence’s wand was a true Beauvais: swamp mayhaw and the same core Mrs. Violetta put in all her wands, even if she refused to tell people what it was. The wood had been carved into a spiral shape, almost like a unicorn’s horn. The hilt was silver, which should have felt cool beneath his touch and was somehow always warm instead. A blue glass cabochon had been set into the base of it; there was silver dust in the glass, and the cabochon sparkled with it, like stars in the night sky. Credence loved it.

He wished Percival were with him to share his joy. It felt wrong, trying to sleep somewhere other than the shelter of Percival’s arms. The baby didn’t like it either, choosing to move around and kick more often at night than he did at home.

I know, Credence thought. I miss your father, too.

It wouldn’t be good manners to leave so soon, though.

Credence sighed.

“Can’t sleep?” someone asked from behind him.

“Oh my God!” Credence yelped, drawing his wand from his pocket and pointing it threateningly at the other person. His brain stuttered between _incarcerus_ and _stupefy_ and his wand produced red sparks instead.

Mr. Ramirez held his hands up placatingly. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I didn’t even hear you _move,”_ Credence said, lowering his wand and going back to rubbing his chest.

“Force of habit,” said Mr. Ramirez. “Heartburn?”

“What?”

“You keep rubbing your breastbone. Heartburn?”

“Oh. Yes,” Credence admitted.

“No wonder you can’t sleep,” Mr. Ramirez observed. “Come on. I’ll get you something that’ll help.”

Credence followed him back into the house. Mr. Ramirez moved with the ease of long familiarity, heading straight for the biggest kitchen Credence had ever seen.

Oh, wow, he thought. Jacob would _love_ this.

It was clearly a kitchen for a large family, or possibly an elaborate restaurant. There were copper pots and pans hanging from a rack in the ceiling. Mr. Ramirez fetched one down and pulled milk out of the refrigerator, splashing some into the pot. He pulled a tea tin down next, then fetched the jar of honey.

Mr. Ramirez brewed two mugs of warm milk, lightly flavored with peppermint tea and sweetened with honey. He blew on his own mug to cool it and then took a sip.

“This is really good,” Credence said shyly. He’d spent three days in Mr. Ramirez’s company, and he still wasn’t sure whether or not Mr. Ramirez actually wanted to escort him to Georgia or if Mr. Ramirez thought of him as work. He suspected it was the latter, since Mr. Ramirez seemed to regard him like a hen with one chick, or possibly a sheepdog with one lamb.

“Seraphina taught me how to make it,” Mr. Ramirez said. “She learned it from her father; he didn’t much care for spicy food either.”

“Dinner was delicious,” Credence said, lest Mr. Ramirez think he was ungrateful. He wasn’t going to turn away perfectly good food just because he didn’t care for it. Food that he didn’t have any tolerance for was still better than no food at all.

Mr. Ramirez made a considering noise. It was not quite like one of his placeholder noises, which Credence was slowly learning to interpret. It was more like the prelude to a word than a placeholder one.

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t,” Mr. Ramirez said mildly. “But if you don’t like spicy food, or if you haven’t acquired a taste for it, I can see how a person might not care for it.” He sipped his own warm milk. “I didn’t much like it the first time I tried it, either. Didn’t stop me from eating it, mind you. Where I’m from, you don’t waste food when you’ve got it.” He looked Credence right in the eyes, letting Credence see the truth there. “Especially not when you don’t know when you might get more of it.”

Oh, Credence thought. You’re like me.

He wondered, for a moment, if wizards ever went hungry because they didn’t have enough to live on and buy groceries. It didn’t seem terribly likely. If you could use magic to walk on water and transform one object into another, surely it couldn’t be that difficult to conjure up something to eat.

Mr. Ramirez sounded like someone who knew what it was like to go hungry, though. He sounded like someone who knew that his own full belly – or even a half-full one – would come at the expense of someone else’s empty one.

“Your parents aren’t wizards, are they?” Credence asked.

“No,” said Mr. Ramirez. “My mamá and her husband are both No-Maj’s. So are my younger brothers and sisters.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “The man who fathered me was one of the Twelve. He wanted nothing to do with my mamá or with me, but his blood was enough to get me a letter from Ilvermorny. I didn’t want to leave home, but if I did, there would be one less mouth to feed, so I left.”

Credence blinked. Percival made belonging to one of the Twelve sound like an honor and a privilege. So had Verity. Wilkinson had too, a little, but Mr. Ramirez – who did not have the name of one of the original Twelve Aurors either – did not sound like he considered it either of those things.

Mr. Ramirez caught his surprise, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Being descended of the Twelve doesn’t make you a good man. The man who fathered me was proof of that. My grandfather tried to teach me, but I was young and angry. I didn’t want anything to do with any of the Twelve.”

“What made you change your mind?” he asked, genuinely curious. Percival clearly regarded Mr. Ramirez as someone worthy of respect, and as far as he could tell, the feeling was mutual.

Mr. Ramirez snorted. “What else? Seraphina and Graves. Although I suppose he was still Percival, then. The Princess and her Knight.”

Credence froze, mug of warm milk halfway to his lips.

“Er,” Mr. Ramirez said, seeming awkward for the first time in their brief acquaintance. “It wasn’t romantic,” he hastened to assure Credence. “Their relationship was a lot like it is now, actually, only much cuter because they were tiny.”

 _Marco has stories too,_ Seraphina reminded him from memory.

Credence set his mug down, reaching a hand out to grasp Mr. Ramirez’s arm. “Please tell me you have pictures.”

Mr. Ramirez actually _grinned._ “I’ll get the album,” he said. “Finish your milk.”

 

*

 

“This is the best thing I have ever seen in my entire life,” Credence announced. He turned another page, absolutely delighted.

Photo Percival stared back at him from varying ages and points in time: so tiny he must have been a first year at Ilvermorny, recognizable by his ferocious eyebrows and cheeky grin, then a few years older, clearly contemplating mischief. In one of the photos, Percival deliberately winked at the camera and then lobbed a ball of some sort at a much younger Seraphina’s head. It exploded into a shower of sparkly beads and paper, which Photo Seraphina attempted to force feed him.

Percival and Seraphina beamed at him over mugs of cocoa in the library of Picquery House; tore gleefully down a massive staircase, hell bent on murdering one another; fell asleep on one another’s shoulders on a couch at Ilvermorny. Credence watched, one hand over his mouth to muffle his own laughter, as a much younger version of Mr. Ramirez carefully drew a mustache over Percival’s sleeping face and, after a moment of deliberation, Seraphina’s.

He paused when he got to the photo of Seraphina with a black eye. She looked no older than Chastity had been – sixteen, old enough to think herself a woman grown and still so very much a child – and her left eye was swollen shut. The photo of Percival pasted next to it was no better; Photo Percival’s jaw was bruised, his whole demeanor sullen.

“What happened?” Credence demanded, helpless against the sudden surge of rage. They were _children_ and someone had hurt them. Had hurt _both_ of them. He wanted to reach into the past and rip whoever had done it apart, because Percival could handle himself now but he shouldn’t have had to at _sixteen._

Mr. Ramirez looked at the photos and snorted. “They did,” he said.

Credence frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Mr. Ramirez leaned back in his chair. “Trust me,” he said dryly. “No one does. They both claim it was a Graves-style duel. Have you seen one of those, yet?”

Credence shook his head.

“They mostly involve throwing punches as well as hexes,” said Mr. Ramirez. “It’s effective – particularly against purebloods – and impressive as hell to watch, but it’s not exactly what Genevieve would call the done thing.”

Credence couldn’t see why, and said so. Magical brutality was much more efficient and terrifying than physical violence, but it was still violence. He didn’t understand why one form of it should be any more acceptable than another.

Mr. Ramirez shrugged, managing to convey that he didn’t understand pureblood logic any better than Credence did. Credence really wanted to know how he did that; he found Mr. Ramirez’s near-silent method of fascinating. For a man of very few words he managed to say quite a bit.

Credence looked down at Photo Seraphina again. Ma hadn’t blacked his eye since he got too old for the injury to be dismissed as boyish rough-housing, but he still remembered how inconvenient it was to have one eye swollen shut.

“Percival did this?” He could not imagine Percival raising a hand to Seraphina.

Dindrane had mentioned this fight, he remembered suddenly. _Ask Seraphina about the last time they dueled. They were both about sixteen._

He still couldn’t imagine it.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Eh,” said Mr. Ramirez. “If you ask Seraphina, it was because Percival was being a dick. If you ask Percival, it was because Seraphina pissed him off. Most everyone else thinks they just wanted to see who was better, except they’d been scrapping for years and were evenly matched, for the most part. They knew it, too.”

“You think it was something else,” Credence guessed.

“I’ve got a theory,” Mr. Ramirez allowed. “Mind you, I’m biased, but I think Graves picked a fight just to prove that he could. He and Seraphina have been thick as thieves since they were first years; the way they tell it, he took one look at her and decided she was the storybook princess his mother’s stories said a proper knight should serve and that was it.”

Credence frowned. That was still the way Percival and Seraphina told that story, so he wasn’t sure why Mr. Ramirez thought it was an explanation for why Percival had punched Seraphina in the face.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“He follows her,” Mr. Ramirez translated. “Always has. With everyone else, Graves usually leads, but her, he follows. That sort of thing grates on you when you’re sixteen and dumb.”

“You think he wanted to be king?” Credence asked.

“I think he thought he was supposed to want that.” Mr. Ramirez sighed. “Dindrane had an apprenticeship at the Fisher Institute. She was never going to be the Graves in MACUSA, but that didn’t stop Geraint from pushing. They fought about it a lot, especially then. I think Graves internalized a lot of it and realized he was the one who’d inherit his father’s ambitions. Geraint was a Senior Auror when he died; he wanted his successor to do better.”

“Oh,” said Credence. That seemed an unimaginable amount of pressure to put on a child. All he wanted for his own son was that he be happy and loved.

“It’s just speculation,” Mr. Ramirez said gruffly.

“It makes sense,” Credence said. “What changed, though? Did he stop thinking he needed to be king after they fought?”

“They broke into Professor Souza’s liquor drawer,” Mr. Ramirez said.

“They _what,”_ said Credence.

“They liberated a bottle of gin, had a drunken heart-to-heart, and made friendship bracelets.”

Credence stared at him. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Only about the friendship bracelets.”

Credence did not know why he was surprised. That sort of thing seemed par for the course from Percival’s school days.

At least they weren’t naked.

“Are there other wizarding schools?” he asked, a little desperately. “Ilvermorny does not seem like it has adequate adult supervision.”

Mr. Ramirez laughed so hard he Credence worried he would wake the rest of Grandmama’s household.

“There are,” he said, once he’d finally stopped laughing a couple of minutes later. “But I don’t think they’d have been any more successful at keeping Seraphina and Percival in line. The two of them have always been …”

“Exceptional?” Credence suggested, because that was what Percival always said about Seraphina.

“Incorrigible,” said Mr. Ramirez.

Credence had to admit that sounded pretty accurate of both of them, too.

“Seraphina had the talent,” Mr. Ramirez explained. It was clear that of the two of them, Seraphina was his favorite. “Graves had the bloody-minded determination. I hated him.”

Credence blinked.

“He was the sort of heir the man who fathered me wanted,” Mr. Ramirez explained. “A perfect pureblood little prince, magically powerful but still willing to work hard to master his gifts. And what did he get? A half-blood off some native slut he was too drunk to remember fucking until she showed up with a baby.”

“I’m sure that’s not –”

“Oh, it is,” Mr. Ramirez said easily. He didn’t sound bitter or angry about it, which almost made the whole thing worse. “He told me so. He was drunk then, too. I doubt he even remembers he said it.”

“That’s awful,” Credence said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Mr. Ramirez. “I’m not. I’m glad I’m the only legacy he’ll ever have. A half-blood _mestizo_ who loathes the sight of him and refuses his name is exactly the sort of legacy that man deserves.”

“Who is he?” Credence asked.

“No one who matters. I have more influence in the Congress than he does.” Mr. Ramirez smiled at that, a predatory white flash of teeth.

Credence made a mental note to ask Grandmama, later. He wanted to know who to avoid.

“Do you still hate Percival?” he asked. “You seem like you know him very well.”

“He still pisses me off on a regular basis, but no, I don’t hate him.”

“Good.”

Mr. Ramirez smiled. “What would you have done if I’d said yes?”

Credence thought about it. “Hit you with an _incarcerus_ and drawn a silly moustache on you,” he decided.

This time, Mr. Ramirez’s laughter did wake other people up. Miss Rosa, Grandmama’s cook, all but chased them out of her kitchen with a broom, but she brought them breakfast, so Credence figured she wasn’t _that_ mad at them.

 

*

 

“Credence,” Grandmama said, sounding like she was trying not to laugh.

“Mm-hmm?” Credence asked around the pen in his mouth. Then he remembered who he was talking to, spat the pen out, and rose to his feet because there was a lady present and he’d been raised with better manners than that. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked. “Grandmama,” he corrected. The word fell off his lips easier than it had earlier in the week, but he hadn’t quite got used to it yet.

“I left you alone for half an hour,” Grandmama said.

Credence looked down at the table. He’d pulled half a dozen books on etiquette from the shelves of Picquery House’s library while he’d waited, making notes of the titles so he could purchase copies of his own once he was back in New York. He had a couple of them open, and was taking notes in the blank book Mr. Ramirez had kindly conjured up for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I’ll put it all back. I remember where everything goes,” he assured Grandmama Genevieve.

She _tsked_ at him. “I’m not angry, child. Please stop apologizing. We’re family.” She gestured at the books spread out on the table next to the book of newspaper articles. Most of them were about Seraphina, but some of Percival’s more notable exploits had been pasted in as well. There was even, Credence was delighted to see, a copy of the article where some foolish reporter from the _Ghost_ had interviewed Grandmama Genevieve, hoping for confirmation of Torrid Secret Romance between Seraphina and Percival.

Percival was right. Grandmama Genevieve’s set-down had been positively _blistering._ Credence half-expected there to be heat rising from the pages even now.

The coven’s letters to the editor were even better, a feat Credence had not thought possible. Mrs. Poppy’s vocabulary was particularly impressive.

“I’m just reminded of Seraphina’s school days. She used to study like this, too. You’d have done well in Horned Serpent.”

“Percival said that too,” Credence admitted, blushing a little as he sat down again. He liked hearing that people thought that he belonged in the wizarding world. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, even if he lived to be as old as Ariadne or Grandmama Genevieve. “Well, that or Pukwudgie.”

“Pukwudgie,” Mr. Ramirez opined, not looking up from the dog-eared romance novel he’d found somewhere and started reading. There was a picture of a woman in an artfully torn dress on the cover, revealing a very great deal of her bosom. Since it was a wizarding picture, her bosom heaved dramatically while she clung to the pirate Credence assumed was her lover.

“Hmph,” said Grandmama. “Nonsense.” She jabbed a finger at Credence’s books. “He clearly favors the mind.”

“Did you go to Ilvermorny?” Credence asked.

“Of course,” said Grandmama. “The Picquery’s are one of the oldest wizarding bloodlines in Georgia. We’ve always tended towards Horned Serpent, with a Thunderbird or two over the years.” She smiled at Credence. “You fit right in.”

Mr. Ramirez turned a page. He managed to infuse that faint sound with nearly audible disapproval.

Credence _really_ wanted to know how he did that.

Grandmama Genevieve rounded on him. “Do you have something to say, Marco?” she inquired. Her tone was the same one Seraphina liked to use on Percival – the one that suggested having something to say was not in his best interests.

“He’s clearly a Pukwudgie,” Mr. Ramirez told Grandmama, ignoring the warning tone.

He and Percival were a lot more alike than either one of them wanted to admit.

Grandmama gestured to the book strewn table again, a trifle more dramatically this time. “Is he?” she inquired.

Mr. Ramirez closed his book, using his finger to mark his place. “He’s marrying Percival,” he explained.

Grandmama considered that. “You have a point,” she conceded.

Mr. Ramirez went back to his book, one corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk. Credence might have been imagining that, though.

Or maybe not, he thought, judging from Grandmama’s irritated expression.

“Credence,” Grandmama said softly, re-focusing on him. “Why does this matter so much to you?”

Credence looked down at his notes, trying to sort through his jumbled feelings and form a coherent answer. He had half a dozen different reasons, all of them of equal importance. He’d never belonged anywhere the way he belonged to the wizarding world. He’d never _wanted_ to belong anywhere the way he wanted to belong to the wizarding world. It was wonderful and glorious and full of miracles, but there were still things about it that needed to be better. Percival thought that Credence could _make_ them better, but to do that, Credence needed to look and sound like someone worth listening to. Someone worthy of respect.

It was selfish, he thought, but at the root of it all, he wanted to know how a proper high society wizard was supposed to act because he wanted people to look at him and see someone _worthy_ of Percival. He did not want anyone to look at Percival or their son and think less of them because of _him._

He wanted people to look at him and see a real wizard. A Graves.

“Because I wasn’t raised in your world,” he said eventually. “I don’t know anything past a couple of dueling spells and the charms for housework. There are children who know more about magic than I do.”

“All of that can be learned, though,” Genevieve said gently.

“I know,” Credence said. “And I will.” He fidgeted. Ma would have rapped his knuckles for that, but Grandmama just looked concerned. “Percival is one of the Twelve,” he said quietly. “I don’t know much about the wizarding world, but I know that that means something. I don’t want people to look at him and wonder why he’s marrying some … some ignorant freak.”

Mr. Ramirez closed his book and sat up straight, eyes narrowed. “Who said you were a freak?” he asked. His voice went flat, deliberately stripped of accent and intonation.

Credence did not think that was a good sign.

“No one,” he said hastily.

“Someone has,” Mr. Ramirez noted.

“No one recently,” Credence assured him, thinking of the way ordinary people used to look at him because of Ma’s ministry – because Ma believed in witches and magic and thought that both were dangerous. “Not since I found out that magic existed. Everyone in the wizarding world has been very kind.”

Well. Everyone except for Mr. Grindelwald and Wilkinson, but they didn’t bear mentioning.

“Ah,” said Mr. Ramirez, sounding faintly disgruntled.

Credence decided that was a good sign. At least he sounded like _something,_ rather than a blank, murderous automaton. Disgruntled was better than murderous, wasn’t it?

“You’re a Graves,” Grandmama said firmly. “No one will ever look at you and see a freak. Not ever.”

“But they will be looking at me,” Credence said, looking up to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” Grandmama said, holding his gaze. “It’s good you understand that. Not everyone who marries into the Twelve does.”

Mr. Ramirez opened his book again. “You don’t have to play by their rules, you know,” he said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t even know what the rules _are_ yet,” Credence replied. He was learning, though. He had a much better idea of what constituted proper high society behavior now than he had when he’d arrived in Georgia.

“What are you going to do once you do?” Grandmama asked.

Credence looked down at his notes again. “I want to make sure that what happened to my sister and I doesn’t happen to anyone else,” he said. “I want to repeal Rappaport’s Law.”

Mr. Ramirez dropped his book.

Grandmama Genevieve smirked at him. “Still think he’s a Pukwudgie?”

“Oh, he’s _definitely_ a Pukwudgie,” Mr. Ramirez said.

Grandmama tutted. “He’s a budding politician. He’s a proper Horned Serpent.”

“He’s a damned _revolutionary,_ is what he is,” Mr. Ramirez argued.

“I am sitting right here,” Credence reminded them both. “And I don’t believe I’m a politician _or_ a revolutionary,” he added tartly.

“Ah,” said Grandmama. “Yes, of course. How rude of us. I do apologize.”

Mr. Ramirez grunted in agreement. “What are you, then?” he asked.

Credence grinned at him. Repealing Rappaport’s Law would make the world better – _safer_ – for his people. There was only one thing he could be with such a goal in mind. “A Graves.”

 

*

 

Credence pulled a book of stories about Merlin and King Arthur out of the library after dinner. He felt equal parts foolish and homesick; Georgia was lovely and Grandmama Genevieve was even more gracious and wonderful than Percival had said she’d be, but he missed New York and his friends and _Percival._ Mostly Percival, if he was being honest.

Maybe the familiar stories would help.

Except these stories weren’t Percival’s stories. They were different versions of the stories Credence knew, and he could not decide if he liked them as a result. He turned to the fictional Percival’s search for the Grail, wondering if it had a happier ending.

It didn’t. Or at least, Credence didn’t think that it did. This version of the Grail quest had the Grail grant Percival and Galahad immortality, although it was a bit fuzzy on the details of how such a thing was accomplished. The book mentioned the Grail’s connection to the Last Supper, which Credence assumed had something to do with the Grail’s magical properties.

This was a No-Maj version of the stories, he realized. If it was a wizarding one, the stories would have focused more on magic – more on Merlin. There would have been no mention of Christ or the Last Supper at all.

He liked the wizarding version of the Camelot stories better. All manner of terrible things happened to women and innocents in this one. In this book, it was Dindrane who sacrificed her life to heal the Fisher King, not Percival.

Maybe it was naive of him, but Credence preferred the version where _both_ of them got to live happily ever after.

Credence made a face and went back to the library. Mr. Ramirez had unearthed another lurid-looking romance from somewhere, if the two men in strange plaid skirts were any indicator. Maybe the book with the pirate on it had a happy ending.

He couldn’t find the book with the pirate on the cover, even after twenty minutes of fruitless searching. He did manage to find a hand-lettered version of the Camelot stories when he went to put the No-Maj one back. He pulled it out and went to one of the large stuffed chairs in Picquery House’s library to study it.

The script was clear and easy to read, and something about the elegantly curling letters made him think that it had been written by a woman. Credence turned to the first page and read _a long, long time ago, when wizards lived alongside the No-Maj’s and neither feared the other, the most beautiful woman in the land was named Igraine._

It was the first story Percival had ever told him – the one about King Arthur’s parents. More importantly, that was the way Percival told it.

He checked the front of the book for an inscription.

 _For Seraphina, on her thirteenth birthday,_ he read, in the same script that decorated the heavy vellum pages. _May these stories remind you to rule as wisely as Arthur when the time comes. Love, Vivian._

“Oh,” he said aloud. “Your grandmother wrote these,” he told the baby. Talking to the baby seemed less mad than talking to himself, even if the baby couldn’t talk back.

He wondered what had happened to Percival’s mother. He had a vague idea of what had happened to Percival’s father – Geraint Graves had died in the line of duty, the way Credence worried Percival might – but Percival rarely spoke of his mother, except to mention her scholarly works.

There was probably a reason for that. Maybe Grandmama would know. He didn’t want to open old wounds if he didn’t have to.

Credence flipped through the stories, pausing to admire the hand-drawn illustrations. The sketches were just that – sketches, all clean lines and careful use of whitespace. They did not move as much as wizarding photos did, but every once in awhile one of them would wink, or grin, or make funny faces at him.

He thumbed through the pages until he found the story of Percival and Dindrane and found his own Percival staring back at him, all brash, boyish cockiness and swagger. The little sketch of thirteen year old Percival held a spear, which he swung in a wide arc. Next to him, the sketch of Dindrane rolled her eyes.

Credence laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Grandmama asked, leaning against the door to the library.

Credence held up the book. “I found this,” he explained. “Percival’s mother made it for Seraphina.” He showed her the sketch of Percival and Dindrane.

Grandmama Genevieve smiled. “The Lady of the Lake looks like Seraphina,” she told him. “Or what Vivan assumed Seraphina would grow up to look like.”

“I didn’t see that,” Credence said. He hadn’t really been paying all that much attention to the other characters, but he was a bit biased. He turned the pages towards the end of the book, looking for the story about Arthur’s death and the fall of Camelot. He found a thin brass charm on leather straps tucked into the pages.

A bracelet, he realized. Used as a bookmark.

The design stamped into the brass was simple and familiar: Ilvermorny’s Gordian knot, which he recognized from photos of Percival and Seraphina in their school robes. There was a dark circle surrounding the knot, a raised braid of something that did not look like jewelry. It wasn’t string, either. It looked, he thought, like human hair.

“What’s this?” he asked, frowning. He held the bracelet out for Grandmama to inspect.

She took it from him, mild curiosity fading into recognition. “It’s a Mother’s Heartease,” she said.

“A what?”

“The name isn’t terribly accurate,” Grandmama told him. “It’s called a Mother’s Heartease. It’s a charm. It’s designed to alert a wizarding parent if their child is hurt or in danger. They don’t work terribly well,” she admitted. “The spells used to keep track of specific people are complex. You can’t distill them into something so small without drastically reducing their efficiency. Most people think of them as simple hearthwitch charms, little better than superstition.”

“But they work,” Credence said, intrigued. If he had something like that, would it tell him if Percival was hurt?

“Not well,” Grandmama cautioned. “Really, you’d have about as much luck with parental intuition,” she said. “Some parents just know when their children are in trouble,” she clarified, at Credence’s questioning look. “You’ll see.”

“Did Vivian make this?” Credence asked. She must have. Grandmama Genevieve did not seem to put much stock in the Mother’s Heartease. It did not seem like the sort of thing she would make.

Grandmama sighed. “Percival went through … well. I suppose you could call it a bit of an overprotective phase. Justifiable, under the circumstances, but a bit alarming in a boy his age. Vivian made a charm for him and a charm for Seraphina, so they’d stop ditching classes to check on one another.”

“What happened?” Credence asked.

Grandmama pressed her lips into a thin line. After a moment she shook her head. “It’s long past,” she said firmly, no trace of censure in her voice. Whatever had happened was clearly off-limits, but she wasn’t angry with him for asking.

“How does a Mother’s Heartease work?” Credence asked, obligingly changing the subject. “Is that hair?”

“Yes,” said Grandmama. “It’s … well, it’s not blood magic, exactly, but it does work best with bloodlines,” she said. “As I said, parents make them for their children. A strand of the parent’s hair and a strand of the child’s, emphasizing the blood shared between them. It’s much harder to make a Heartease charm without a direct bloodline connection.”

Ma always made blood magic sound like the devil’s work, but a Heartease charm seemed small and benign compared to the sacrifice of innocents and devil worship.

Of course, Ma thought _all_ magic was the devil’s work.

Ma really hadn’t known all that much about magic. Credence resolved to put Ma and her opinions out of his mind.

Someday, Credence thought wistfully, he wouldn’t give Ma a second thought at all. He was really looking forward to that.

Credence took the bracelet back from Grandmama. “Is this one Percival’s or Seraphina’s?”

“Seraphina’s, I think,” Grandmama told him. “She hasn’t worn it in years.”

Credence frowned. “I don’t think I’d ever take mine off, if I had one,” he confessed.

Grandmama smiled at him, sphinx-like and knowing. “You think that now,” she said. “But one day, your boy will be a man grown, and you’ll have to trust that you’ve raised him to be strong and to defend himself. Anything else would be unhealthy.”

“It’s not the baby I’m worried about,” Credence said dryly. He might feel differently after his son had been born, once he wasn’t safe and sheltered inside of Credence’s body, but for now the baby wasn’t his biggest concern.

“Ah,” said Grandmama Genevieve. “Yes, I take your point. My grandson’s always been a touch too reckless for his own good. Perhaps he’ll find the strength to temper that impulse, now that he’s got a family of his own to think of.”

“He will,” Credence said. “He promised.” It was easy to have faith in Percival. It was easier to believe in Percival than God or magic, because Percival always kept his promises and didn’t lie.

It was the rest of the world Credence had problems trusting. There were an awful lot of people willing to hurt those weaker than themselves to get what they wanted, and Percival would try and stop them all.

Grandmama smiled at him. “You might as well keep that,” she said. “I know it can’t be easy, being away from home in your condition.”

“Oh, I’m not -” Credence began, and stopped. He didn’t want to lie. “I miss him. I miss _home._ ”

Grandmama covered his hand in her own. “This is your home, too. For anyone who matters to Percival. But you’ll be back in New York soon enough.” Her expression darkened, which Credence had learned meant she was thinking about “that German upstart with bad manners.” (Grandmama and the rest of the coven did not think much of Mr. Grindelwald. Credence got the impression that if they’d discovered he and Percival had been taken captive before Percival had gotten them free, they’d have all gone off to New York to teach Mr. Grindelwald some manners.)

“Thank you,” Credence said.

Grandmama bent down to kiss his forehead. “Try to get some sleep, child,” she advised. “You’re giving Marco fits.”

Credence frowned. Mr. Ramirez seemed as composed as ever. Why on earth would _he_ be giving Mr. Ramirez fits?

“If Percival thinks Marco hasn’t taken good enough care of you, he won’t be subtle about making Marco regret it,” Grandmama said, correctly interpreting his expression.

“Ah,” said Credence. He pressed one hand to his belly, trying to soothe the baby. The baby had taken up boxing with Credence’s other organs in Percival’s absence and flat-out refused to be soothed.

There was no doubt in Credence’s mind which parent their son took after. “I’ll try,” he promised.

Grandmama plucked the bracelet out of Credence’s hand again and tied the thin leather cords around his wrist in quick, efficient movements.

“And you,” Grandmama told the baby, poking right where he was kicking. “ _Behave_.”

The baby went still for the first time in half an hour. Credence was equal parts relieved and impressed. Maybe now he could get some sleep.

Still. Percival was right. Southern matriarchs were _terrifying_.

 

*

 

Graves levitated the shield charm in the air above his left hand. He had his chin propped up on his right hand, elbow planted firmly on his desk in defiance of good manners.

He had not looked away from the shield charm for the better part of ten minutes. It’s tiny ruby eyes twinkled at him as though the little filigree phoenix found his internal dilemma hilarious.

Knowing who had crafted the shield charm – and who had worn it for the better part of three decades – it probably did.

Shield charms were a relatively unstudied magical phenomenon. It took quite a bit of talent and power to make one, and the potential consequences of making one incorrectly generally put most people with common sense off the idea of making one entirely. Very few wizards cared to risk the possibility of living out the rest of their days as a squib.

It took love to make a shield charm. Love, and desperation.

Graves wasn’t one hundred percent certain the shield charm would work as well for him as it had for Grindelwald. He wasn’t the shield charm’s intended bearer, after all. Dumbledore didn’t love him.

Of course, Dumbledore didn’t love Grindelwald, either. Probably. Graves wasn’t entirely certain how Dumbledore felt about Grindelwald anymore. Graves suspected that Dumbledore wasn’t certain about that either. But Dumbledore’s conflicted feelings hadn’t stopped the shield charm from protecting Grindelwald from Graves’ slashing hex.

It would probably do the same for whoever wore it next.

Graves sighed. The shield charm’s next wearer was a separate dilemma. Dumbledore had given it to him, and good manners dictated that he keep it. Graves did not like the thought of wearing someone else’s magic – of being protected by someone else’s magic – unless that other person was Credence.

Credence was probably strong enough to make a shield charm.

Graves ignored that thought, mostly because his libido liked it a little too much. Credence was in Georgia, and he was at _work_. Now was not the time for inappropriate thoughts.

He sighed again.

He ought to wear the shield charm. Most Aurors would kill for one. Graves would have killed anyone who could have worn one and chose not to. It would be hypocritical of him not to hold himself to the same standards.

That thought made him smile. Seraphina had been accusing him of hypocrisy for the last twenty years, mostly because Graves had a tendency to foist his protection charms off on junior Aurors in the field. All Aurors carried standard issue protection charms that were designed to ward off the sort of Dark magic Aurors frequently encountered: the sorts of spells that turned a man inside out, or had him vomiting up blood while his organs liquified. They wouldn’t _stop_ those spells – nothing short of a shield charm would do that, and Graves wasn’t certain even that would work – but they generally absorbed the worst of the effects, increasing the odds of survival exponentially.

Junior Aurors tended to forget their protection charms more often than not, at least until they got enough experience to realize why their protective equipment was important. Graves wanted them to live long enough to get that experience, which was why he tended to foist his own protection charms off on them if it looked like there was going to be trouble.

Seraphina did not find his reasoning compelling. _You think everyone needs protection but you. You’re a fucking hypocrite, Percival._

Graves’ usual counter-argument was to point out that as Head of Magical Law Enforcement, it would be equally hypocritical of him to deny anyone under his command adequate protection when he had the means to provide it – not to mention morally reprehensible.

Seraphina’s typical response to that particular line of reasoning was to hex him and force him to buy the first three rounds the next time they went out, on the grounds that he’d driven her to drink so it was his damn responsibility to provide them.

Graves mentally apologized to Seraphina pre-emptively, made a mental note to buy her a bottle of Pinnock’s gigglewater, and let the shield charm fall back into his hand. He slipped it off the worn leather cord and strode back out into the bullpen.

Goldstein was one of the rare few junior Aurors who always remembered her protection charms, her wand _and_ her wand permit. She didn’t just have good instincts – she was a genuinely good Auror.

If he’d timed this right, she would be sneaking out to meet Newt for a hot dog right about now.

Goldstein had just picked up her coat, turning to face him with a guilty look on her face. “Sir,” she said.

Graves took the coat from her and held it out for her to slip on. “Try to keep him out of trouble,” he said.

Tina shrugged into her coat and snorted. “I’m a witch, not a miracle worker,” she retorted.

Graves caught the chain of Goldstein’s locket, deliberately snapping the chain as he tried to tug his hand free. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Sorry, Goldstein. I’ll fix it.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Goldstein said automatically, a brief flash of distress crossing her face. She had portraits of her parents in that locket.

Graves muttered the spell that would let him phase the shield charm into the rounded hollow behind the portraits in the locket, hiding the shield charm’s existence entirely. A second muttered spell repaired the chain. He handed the locket back to Goldstein, who ran her fingers over the repaired chain and smiled in relief.

“Sorry,” he said again.

Goldstein slipped the locket back over her neck. “No harm done,” she said.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Graves told her. “Maybe try a vegetable? I hear they’re good for you.”

Goldstein had the audacity to _roll her eyes_ at him. “Yes, Dad,” she said sarcastically.

Halfway across the bullpen, Theseus snorted with laughter. “I like her,” he declared.

“She’s got spirit,” Graves agreed, making his way to Theseus. He liked Goldstein, too. He wanted her to live.

He’d tell her about the shield charm after Grindelwald was gone. Goldstein could choose whether to keep it or to put it in a drawer and forget all about it. For now, Graves was going to enjoy the irony: that the very same shield charm that had protected Grindelwald was now protecting the person responsible for his arrest. Grindelwald wanted Goldstein dead, if he didn’t have something worse in mind. If things went wrong tomorrow, he or his people would be gunning for her just as much as they would for Graves or Theseus or Gaarder.

Please, he thought. Please, let it keep her safe.

“Tomorrow,” Theseus murmured.

Graves thought about all of their exhaustive planning. There were still a thousand ways things could go wrong. Part of him wanted to go over the security plan one more time, but he suspected that if he brought it up again, Theseus would make good on his threat to knock Graves’ teeth down his throat.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

 

*

 

Theseus had been right when he’d pointed out that the single greatest vulnerability to the security plan was during transport. As long as Grindelwald was in MACUSA’s holding cells – or eventually in Azkaban – he was cut off from his network of followers and anyone who might attempt a rescue. The Aurors themselves would be too spread out; covering every single inch of ground would be impossible.

Transport was when Graves would have hit them, if he’d been one of Grindelwald’s fanatics. Magic knew he and Theseus had hit enough supply lines during the war. He knew _exactly_ how vulnerable they were.

The ICW (Gaarder) and the British Security Team (Theseus) had graciously agreed to let MACUSA’s Aurors (Graves and his team) take point transporting Grindelwald from MACUSA’s holding cells to the docks. It was, arguably, the higher risk portion of the operation – at least until they got to London – and they didn’t have the numbers to handle the job themselves.

“Not to mention we’re responsible for guarding the bastard for the next five days aboard ship,” Theseus had said, squashing Tanwar’s objections before he could voice them. “We’ll be spread thin as it is; no sense in exhausting ourselves prematurely.”

They had considered Apparating directly to the dockyard to minimize their vulnerabilities during transit, but ultimately concluded that to maintain the Statute, it would be better to transfer Grindelwald to the oceanliner by car instead. They would pass him off as Gaarder’s uncle, who’d recently suffered a stroke and was returning home to Norway to recover. Theseus was posing as his personal physician. The rest of the security detail were nurses and other staff, while the rest of the ICW delegates would be scattered as ordinary passengers. Theseus seemed to find the whole thing grimly amusing.

If pretending to share Grindelwald’s blood bothered Gaarder at all, she didn’t show it, as impressively statuesque as ever while they put their plan into place. She was riding in Grindelwald’s car alongside Graves and Summersea, her expression one of faint concern.

She was a magnificent actress, Graves thought. Gaarder fussed over the blanket spread over Grindelwald’s lap, adjusting it minutely. He almost believed she was genuinely concerned for the genocidal madman.

“We should be at the dockyard in just a minute, ma’am,” Graves murmured.

Gaarder nodded, acknowledging that she’d heard him.

Half the Aurors on the Eastern seaboard would be waiting for them to make sure that everything went according to plan. Graves had the Obliviators and the Legilimens working overtime, just in case. The Legilimens to check for Grindelwald’s fanatics, and the Obliviators to deal with the No-Maj’s if the worst should come to pass.

_It seems we’re still in danger, then._

Somewhere in that crowd was Newt, ostensibly returning home to work on his book now that his business in America had been concluded. Graves suspected he was leaving for Goldstein’s sake; they’d taken down Grindelwald together, and Goldstein’s duties as an Auror prevented her from leaving to see Grindelwald in Azkaban. There was nothing to stop Newt from doing so.

If Newt was in the crowd, Jacob and Queenie likely were too. Graves did not like the thought of any of them anywhere near Grindelwald, but he felt better knowing they were at his back.

“Shit,” said Summersea, who was acting as their driver.

Graves tensed. Summersea was _always_ , always cool under fire, so _any_ swear word was a bad sign. He looked around, trying to determine where the threat was.

He had less than half a second to brace for impact, before a car bore down on all of them. It hit the Model A dead center on the driver’s side.

Aiden McRory – MACUSA’s Deputy Director of Magical Security – was behind the wheel.

 

*

 

Credence sat next to the portrait of Adeline Picquery, taking notes on how to make proper peach jam. Adeline was Grandmama Genevieve’s great-aunt, famed – or so she claimed – for her hospitality and the quality of her table. Credence was inclined to believe her. None of the Picquery portraits he’d talked to so far seemed prone to exaggeration.

“No detail is too small to overlook,” she told him. “You mark my words, boy, my prize-winning jam will catch you any pretty witch or wizard you like.”

“I’ve already got the wizard I like,” Credence said dryly, gesturing to his belly.

She squinted at him. “That Yankee boy who took up with our Seraphina?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Credence.

The portrait sniffed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a nice Southern boy?” she asked. “Seraphina’s Yankee is a bit rough around the edges.”

Arguing with the portraits was a fruitless endeavor. They were echoes, not real people. They couldn’t be reasoned with.

“I like him that way,” Credence said.

Adeline looked down her nose at him. Then she sighed. “Well, I suppose they’re something to be said for being the one to put a bit of polish on such a man,” she allowed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Credence said again, in lieu of trying to untangle that particular metaphor. “What happens after you add the lemon?”

“Mostly waiting,” she admitted. “You want your jam to simmer until it gels. Laureline will tell you to use lemon peel in addition to lemon juice, but don’t you listen to her. The pith will just make bitter jam.”

Credence honestly couldn’t remember which portrait Laureline was. He thought she might be the one wearing a dress that looked like a giant cake. “No, ma’am,” he said.

Adeline beamed at him approvingly. “You have very pretty manners, child,” she told him. “Are you sure you want to spend your day listening to a dusty old portrait like me?”

“You’re not dusty _or_ old,” Credence said firmly. Grandmama’s servants took too much pride in their work to let the portraits grow dusty, and Adeline Picquery had been painted while she was in her forties. “You’re lovely, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She fluttered her fan at him. “You little charmer,” she said, sounding pleased. “Would you like my recipe for stuffed beef tenderloin?”

“Does Seraphina like that?” Credence asked. He wanted to be able to make Seraphina’s favorites, the next time she needed sanctuary. If there was anything he’d learned over his stay in Georgia, it was the value of comfort food.

“Seraphina? Goodness, no. Bit of a picky eater, that girl.”

“What does she like?” Credence asked. Sometimes the portraits forgot that people changed as they aged, since the portraits never did. He’d learned that since a majority of them had only known Seraphina and Percival as children, they thought of them as children still. It was amusing, in a bittersweet sort of way. Credence understood why Percival didn’t like wizarding portraits, now.

“Chicken and dumplings,” Adline said eventually, drawing him out of his thoughts. “And beignets.”

Credence’s mouth watered at the thought. Mrs. Violetta had brought homemade beignets with her from New Orleans. The contrast of fried dough and sweet icing sugar was heavenly. Credence could have polished off a whole plate all by himself. He wished he could bring some back to New York with him for Jacob.

Maybe he and Jacob and Dorothy could learn to make them together.

“How –” Credence began, breaking off when the Heartease charm around his wrist began to glow a deep, alarming red. “I’m sorry,” he shouted at Adeline’s portrait, levering himself to his feet and cursing the fact that he couldn’t run as quickly as he had when he wasn’t with child. He did not want to slip and fall, but _Percival was in danger_ and nothing else mattered right now.

He burst into Mr. Ramirez’s room, interrupting his bodyguard/escort’s mid-afternoon catnap. Mr. Ramirez rolled off the bed and to his feet before the door hit the wall, his wand in one hand and a knife in the other.

Credence barely noticed the threat. “We need to go back to New York,” he said, showing Mr. Ramirez the Heartease charm. “We need to go back to New York _right now_.”

 

*

 

MACUSA’s fleet of Model A’s were warded against damage in the event of an accident. No one had ever tested whether or not they could be used to damage each other, which was an oversight Graves was going to correct _immediately_ if he lived to see sundown.

McRory hit them dead center. The impact sent their Model A into a roll, only stopping once it collided with the side of a building.

Graves, like everyone else in the car, was tossed wildly about. He smacked his head against the side window, hearing the glass splinter on impact. He went airborne and then he wasn’t, landing hard against the door, then nearly on top of Summersea as the car crashed to a halt. The car had landed on its side.

Graves kicked out through the windshield. The glass was already broken, and there was no sense in trying the doors.

“Fuck.” Graves could barely hear his own voice. His ears were ringing. He suspected he had one hell of a concussion, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. He had to make sure McRory wasn’t coming back to finish the job.

What the fuck. How long had McRory been working for Grindelwald? He’d arrived not long before Graves had been captured. Had he been a plant from the very beginning?

McRory’s Model A hadn’t fared any better than Graves’ had. Graves staggered to his feet, drawing his wand and casting _protego_ as he stalked towards McRory. It wouldn’t stop the Killing Curse, but it would sure as hell level the playing field. Graves had a lot of experience dueling under fire. McRory didn’t. McRory was a fucking desk Auror, for magic’s sake.

McRory still sat at the wheel, making no move to reach for his wand.

“Aidan McRory, you are under arrest,” Graves rasped, and stopped.

McRory’s face twisted into a terrible rictus. He was sweating and trembling in a manner reminiscent of an addict going through withdrawal.

“Fuck,” Graves said again. He’d been an Auror long enough to recognize when someone was fighting off the Imperius and losing.

“S-sorry, sir,” McRory managed. His hold on his own free will slipped, and his hand went to his wand at last.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Graves snapped, stunning his erstwhile Deputy Director into unconsciousness.

If McRory wasn’t the traitor, who was? Graves turned back to the car he’d been in. Gaarder had dragged Grindelwald free of the wreckage. A cut bisected the right side of her face, running from her eyebrow to halfway down her cheek. What remained of her eye was a ruin. Graves suspected she was in shock, because she didn’t appear to have noticed, yet. He ran back to the car to help free Summersea.

All around them, the rest of the transport vehicles had come to a screeching halt. The Obliviators had deployed No-Maj repelling charms, as per protocol, but the public nature of the accident meant that they weren’t as effective on the No-Maj’s already present.

At least McRory’s attack had been vehicular rather than magical. With any luck, they wouldn’t need to deploy the Obliviators for much beyond crowd control.

Summersea need a hospital, now. Graves turned to check on Gaarder, who had also been sitting on the driver’s side of the car.

Gaarder bent over Grindelwald, checking him for damage. The Draught of Living Death had kept him unconscious despite all the excitement. Graves would thank Robert for that later.

Grindelwald seemed to have taken more damage than Gaarder had. Gaarder pressed one hand over his heart, then sealed her mouth to his, breathing air into his lungs.

Grindelwald woke with a gasp.

“What the hell,” Graves shouted. How the hell had Grindelwald _woken up?_ No one was supposed to wake up once the Draught of Living Death had been administered. It was supposed to be impossible without using the Wiggenweld potion to reverse the effects.

The answer came to him almost immediately. Robert, giant nerd that he was, had a book of potions-related stories for children. Graves had read the story of the Hag Leticia Somnolens to his niece and nephews. Somnolens had used the Draught of Living Death on a princess, and the clever prince had outwitted her by putting the Wiggenweld potion on his lips and waking the princess with a kiss.

Gaarder was the traitor.

Graves lifted his wand a half-second too slowly.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Gaarder snarled, sending him hurtling backwards.

Graves hit the ground hard, using the momentum of the spell to flip back to his feet and face Gaarder again. He was dimly aware of other people Apparating into range: MACUSA’s Aurors and the British Security team against Grindelwald’s fanatics. He only had eyes for Grindelwald.

“Do you really think you can stop me, Percival?” Grindelwald taunted.

Graves bared his teeth. “I think I’m going to enjoy keeping my promises,” he said, throwing a barrage of spells in quick succession. _Relashio, dilaceratio,_ and _stupefy._

Gaarder countered all but the slashing hex, grunting as it struck her shoulder while she was trying to free Grindelwald from his magic-suppressing cuffs.

“Sweet Brunnhilde,” Grindelwald murmured, stroking her cheek as he took Gaarder’s wand from her.

Gaarder slowly sank to her knees. Graves felt her magic well up – hell, half of fucking New York probably felt Gaarder’s magic well up – as she lifted an upturned hand to Grindelwald’s, offering all of it to him. Grindelwald kissed her hand and took it.

“Rest now, my valkyrie,” Grindelwald told her.

Gaarder bowed her head. “Yes, my Lord.”

 _“Avada Kedavra,”_ Grindelwald said.

There was a burst of green light. Gaarder slumped to the ground.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Graves snarled. Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights, what a fucking _waste_. He’d liked Gaarder, for all that she’d been one of Grindelwald’s fanatics. He’d liked the driven, serious witch presented herself as – the witch she must have been before Grindelwald had gotten his claws into her. “She loved you,” he said, remembering what Gaarder had said about him and Seraphina.

_You love her so much you’d follow her into hell._

_I know what it’s like to love like that_.

He’d wondered then, who Gaarder had loved and if she loved them still.

Apparently she’d loved Grindelwald enough to die for him.

“Yes,” Grindelwald said, sounding bored. He twirled Gaarder’s wand in his fingers. The wand was his now. Killing Gaarder had defeated her, and mastery of the wand had passed to her murderer.

That was why he’d done it, Graves realized. Total mastery of Gaarder’s wand would make his use of it more effective. Grindelwald would need every advantage he could get if he was going to escape.

Graves took a deep breath, feeling rage well up alongside his magic. Gaarder had deserved better. Grindelwald had spent her life too cheaply.

He stalked forward, heading straight for Grindelwald.

Grindelwald smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he purred.

“Me too,” Graves said, too softly for Grindelwald to hear. He Apparated just as Grindelwald flung the Cruciatus curse at him, reappearing just behind Grindelwald. Theseus appeared at his side a second later, the booming crack of Apparition ringing loudly even through the chaos.

They kept Grindelwald between them, Apparating and Disapparating before he could land a curse or a hex on either of them, always careful to keep him contained.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” Grindelwald taunted. “You don’t have the reserves for it.” Grindelwald had the reserves for it, now that he had Gaarder’s magic.

“We don’t have to keep it up forever,” Theseus retorted.

“We just have to keep you contained long enough to get the civilians and the No-Maj’s clear,” Graves finished.

“And we’ve more than enough power for _that_ ,” Theseus finished.

MACUSA’s Aurors had gotten the No-Maj’s out of range. Out of the corner of his eye, Graves saw Collins Side-Along Summersea to St. Brigid’s, still unconscious. Gaarder’s body remained where it was; there was nothing anyone could do for her now.

 _“Keravnos,”_ Grindelwald growled. Theseus screamed as the lightning hit him.

“Theseus!” Newt howled, Apparating next to his brother and grabbing him before Theseus could stumble.

“Dilaceratio!”

Grindelwald’s slashing hex hit Newt in the back. Theseus roared in rage, shaking off the effects of the lightning as best he could, but his hand was still shaking as he lifted his wand again.

Dumbledore Apparated in front of both of them, wand raised in a classic dueling stance. “Stop!” he cried.

Grindelwald drew up short. “Albus,” he said.

“Gellert, please,” Dumbledore begged.

Graves swore under his breath. Dumbledore had better protection than any of the Aurors save Goldstein, but he was still a civilian. Why the _fuck_ had no one gotten him to safety with the rest of the ICW delegates?

Grindelwald raised his wand. “I’m sorry, Albus,” he said. “ _Keravnos!_ ”

Goldstein Apparated in front of Dumbledore, dragging him out of range as she lunged for Newt. She stumbled as Grindelwald’s lightning hit her, but she didn’t scream. The shield charm held. Goldstein didn’t seem to notice. She just grabbed Newt’s hand and Side-Alonged both of the civilians out of range again.

“Good girl,” Graves murmured.

Graves tore brickwork out of one of the nearby buildings and flung the whole segment of wall at Grindelwald, abandoning finesse for sheer brute force. Theseus bared his teeth in a snarl and followed suit.

“Two can play at that game,” Grindelwald scoffed, reversing the trajectory of the bricks and dumping it on top of Theseus.

“Theseus!” Graves yelled. A weak groan was his only answer.

Theseus was alive. Graves would have to deal with Grindelwald quickly if he wanted to keep Theseus that way.

Graves flung a barrage of spells at Grindelwald to distract him, letting his magic well up the way he had the night he’d broken free of Grindelwald’s cell. Goldstein reappeared as Graves used _wingardium leviosa_ to throw his ruined Model A at Grindelwald.

“Newt?” Graves asked.

“He’ll live,” Goldstein said. Her hands were still red with blood. “Where’s Theseus?”

“Trapped,” Graves said shortly, indicating the pile of bricks. “But alive.”

Goldstein nodded. “We’d better finish this quickly, sir.”

Fighting with Goldstein at his back wasn’t like fighting with Theseus. Graves knew Theseus with the sort of bone-deep trust born of a hundred different battles. He didn’t have to think to know where Theseus would be.

Goldstein was still one of his, though. He knew her, too.

Graves hit Grindelwald with a wave of pure magic, shoving Grindelwald into a nearby storefront and pinning him there. “ _Incarcerus_ ,” he bellowed.

Grindelwald swore in German and cast _finite incantatem_ before Graves could finish binding his arms, Apparating thirty feet away so he could fling a curse at Goldstein’s unprotected back.

Graves moved automatically to intercept the spell. He reacted entirely on instinct, the existence of Goldstein’s shield charm entirely forgotten. The slashing hex hit his wand arm high up on his shoulder. The hot-metal scent of blood filled the air as Graves’ wand slipped from numb fingers.

“Graves!” Goldstein yelled.

“I’m fine!” he shouted back. “Focus on Grindelwald.”

“You’re not fine!” Goldstein snarled. “You’re an _idiot!”_

Graves snorted. “You’re not wrong,” he said dryly. “But I can still fight.” He didn’t need his wand for this. His magic felt like a living thing – like a wampus cat, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Graves let it go.

Magic smashed into Grindelwald, throwing him halfway down the street. He staggered back to his feet again, teeth bared into a savage rictus.

“How much do you have left, Percival?” Grindelwald called. “You can’t sustain this forever. There’s nowhere to run and no one else to back you up.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Goldstein said. She wasn’t talking about herself. She was looking off to the side.

Queenie Goldstein hovered on the edge of the battle, clutching Jacob Kowalski’s shoulder. Jacob had her tucked mostly behind himself, using his larger frame to shield her.

When this was all over, Graves was going to have a long talk with the Goldstein sisters about civilians and magical emergencies.

Jacob raised his service pistol, his expression intent and focused. He fired at Grindelwald and missed by a narrow margin, the shot ricocheting off the street in front of him.

Grindelwald spat a curse in German and jumped back in startled reflex. “A Muggle?” he demanded, sounding affronted.

“A soldier,” Graves corrected, starting to feel a bit light-headed.

Jacob’s aim was better on the second shot. The bullet grazed Grindelwald’s shoulder. It wasn’t his wand arm, unfortunately.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Grindelwald snarled, shooting red light at Jacob.

The gun went flying. Jacob scrambled after it. Queenie squared her shoulders and raised her wand.

“Queenie, no!” Goldstein screamed. She cast a desperate look at Graves.

“Go!” Graves shouted at her. “I’ll be fine!”

Goldstein Apparated to her sister’s side, taking the brunt of the slashing hex across her front. It flung both of the Goldstein sisters backwards.

Queenie made an awful keening sound. “Teenie!”

“What the fuck?” Goldstein demanded, sitting up with a groan.

Grindelwald’s eyes widened. Then he rounded on Graves, putting the pieces together. “You _dare_ ,” he hissed. “That was _mine!_ ”

“You have no right to it!” Graves shouted back.

“I have every right!” howled Grindelwald. His control over his magic was slipping. Graves felt it batter the crude shields he’d put up like an angry bear, each blow falling like the strike of an ax.

He felt the shield splinter and shoved more power into it. He could not falter, not now. Not when he was the only one standing between Grindelwald and MACUSA.

The next blow drove him to his knees. Graves wished desperately for his wand, but he honestly had no idea where it had ended up. Hopefully he’d be able to reclaim it after all of this was over.

Graves brought his good arm up above his head, instinctively trying to block the next blow. It was a stupid impulse – it wasn’t as though the blows were physical – but it was all he could think to do to brace himself against Grindelwald’s superior force.

There was another crack of Apparition. Reinforcements, but for who? MACUSA? Or Grindelwald?

“Mr. Grindelwald!” a much beloved voice called, quiet but firm.

Graves couldn’t suppress the agonized groan. Not Credence. Not now.

Credence was supposed to be in Georgia.

Credence was supposed to be _safe_.

He forced himself to his feet again. He was nearly spent, he knew, but as long as there was breath in his body, he would fight for Credence and their son.

Credence stood in the middle of the street, without a single bit of cover. Ramirez hovered protectively at his side, the way he usually did when he was guarding Seraphina. He hadn’t bothered with subtlety; he had his quiver slung across his back and was holding his bow, aiming an arrow at Grindelwald.

Grindelwald stared at Credence with greedy eyes, his gaze fixed on the child-round swell of Credence’s belly. “Credence,” he purred. “How marvelous. You’ve saved me the trouble of tracking you down. How is my general?”

 _“My son_ is none of your business,” Credence said firmly. “And I’ll thank you to leave my fiancé alone.”

“So bold,” Grindelwald mocked. “If I’d known taking Percival’s cock would make you this mouthy, I’d have separated the two of you. But you _did_ keep him docile.” He smiled nastily. “I’m going to enjoy making him hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone ever again,” Credence told him, his voice ringing out through the chaos like a bell.

Graves recognized his expression. Credence looked the way he had the night Wilkinson had been arrested, or when he’d been facing Gallagher down and won. He looked like magic and wrath personified, an untouchable fae creature mere mortals should know better than to cross.

Grindelwald, fool that he was, did not seem to realize what a mistake he’d already made. He opened his mouth to utter more vile insinuations and never got the chance to speak.

Credence did not bother trying to duel with Grindelwald. He just hit Grindelwald with a storm of pure magic. Graves felt the rumble of thunder in his bones, drawing strength from the way Credence’s magic felt like lightning crackling in his veins.

“You said I was useless,” Credence spat. “You said I had magical reserves and no way to use them. You wanted a child with my reserves and Percival’s power and you thought that you could _steal him from me_ and I would do nothing to stop you because I was stupid and small and frightened.

“I am not frightened anymore, Mr. Grindelwald, and I am _done_ watching you hurt the people that I love.”

The storm of magic was unyielding, a tempest Merlin himself could not have withstood. Graves wanted to fall to his knees, and he wasn’t even the one Credence was aiming at. Ramirez wasn’t even trying. He’d gone to one knee as if in supplication, using his bow as a crutch to remain upright.

Graves had always known that Credence was powerful, but he’d never imagined anything like this.

There was the child to think of, though. If Credence expended too much magic, it would weaken the androgenesis spells – maybe damage them badly enough that he’d lose the baby. This far into his pregnancy, losing the baby might kill Credence.

Graves had to find a way to make Credence stop before he went too far.

Graves could not lose him. Not to this. Not when they were all so close to finally being _safe_.

“Credence,” he tried.

Credence swept Grindelwald into a nearby wall, then smashed him into the ruins of the Model A.

Graves took an unsteady step forward and then another. He tripped over rubble and landed badly, swearing as he tried to get up again. He’d lost too much blood and used too much magic, Graves realized.

The Bluebird was going to be furious with him. So would Seraphina.

Graves dragged himself to his feet with agonized slowness, unable to focus on anything but Credence.

“Credence,” he said again, but Credence was lost to the magic, eyes glowing white with it.

He had to find a way to deal with Grindelwald. Then Credence would stop and everything would be fine.

He wished he still had his wand. He wasn’t sure he had enough magic to do what needed to be done.

Graves closed his eyes. He had just enough magic left to finish this.

“ _Accio_ gun,” he said, holding his left hand out imperiously. Jacob’s lost gun smacked into it, stinging his palm. Graves ignored the pain and took careful aim at Grindelwald. He wasn’t as good at shooting with his left hand, but Credence had Grindelwald pinned. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I told you you’d die like a No-Maj, Graves thought, and pulled the trigger.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly clean-up. I can't apologize enough for the three month hiatus.
> 
> Also, I want to say thank you to everyone who is still with me a year later. (Exactly. Yikes.) Thank you to everyone who left kudos or comments or just plain thought this weird adventure into worldbuilding with way too many OC's might be worth checking out. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are all amazing.
> 
> ... I kinda think it needs an epilogue, but I was torn between wedding, babyfic, and many years later featuring Galahad Graves as a junior Auror. I _tried_ writing babyfic, and it was the worst, guys. THE WORST. I AM SO BAD AT BABIES.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: Thank you to the wonderful [oatmealcoloured](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatmealcoloured/pseuds/oatmealcoloured) for pointing out that there is a canon spell for making people louder. I totally forgot that was a thing, and the fic has been edited for the correct spell. Thanks!

Grindelwald collapsed when the bullet struck home, falling to the ground. Gaarder’s wand slipped from his grasp as Grindelwald brought his hand up to touch the wound.

Graves staggered forward, reaching for Credence with blood-stained hands. “Credence,” he begged, because the storm of Credence’s magic hadn’t stop. “Credence, _stop.”_

Credence looked at him with white, unseeing eyes.

Graves clasped Credence’s face in his hands. “Come back to me, love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Credence’s mouth.

For one long, awful second nothing happened. Then Credence’s mouth softened beneath his as he responded to the kiss, all heat and homecoming and _Credence._

“Percival,” Credence breathed. He reached up to cup Graves’ face in his hands. “You’re all bloody.”

“Er,” said Graves. “Yes. Yes, I am.” He reached for the last faint flickers of his magic, feeding it into the androgenesis spells.

The baby kicked at his hands, hard enough that it couldn’t be comfortable for Credence.

“Are you alright?”

Credence stared at him. “Am _I_ alright?” he repeated. _“You’re_ the one who’s bleeding!”

He didn’t know, Graves realized. For a second, he was tempted not to say anything, but he didn’t want to keep secrets from Credence. “You were the one throwing magic around,” he countered.

“So were you!” Credence pointed out. “I can feel you _everywhere.”_

Graves was a bit light-headed from blood loss and closer to being magically burnt out than he’d ever been in his life, and his brain _still_ stuttered over the unintentional innuendo.

“I am a terrible example,” Graves said, forcing himself to stop being a dirty old man. “And I was worried you’d spend too much of your magic and weaken the androgenesis spells.”

Credence went pale. “I didn’t realize that could happen,” he admitted, sounding shaken. “I feel fine, though. Do you think –?”

“The spells are fine,” Graves assured him. “Grindelwald wasn’t lying about your magical reserves. I’m sure he’s fine too,” he added with a caress. “But we should get you both checked over by the Bluebird, just in case.”

Credence gave him a sweet smile that had far too many teeth in it. “You first.”

“Theseus first,” said Graves, indicating the pile of rubble. The Goldstein sisters were already coordinating the rescue efforts, thank magic. Theseus was in good hands.

“I need to learn to Apparate,” Credence sighed. He looked around for Ramirez.

Ramirez had regained his feet while Credence got his magic back under control. He looked as calm and unruffled as ever, his bow tucked into the quiver at his back. Graves caught the gleam of light on metal and realized that there was a knife in Ramirez’s left hand. He was headed straight for Grindelwald, having evidently decided to make good on his threats to put a knife in the bastard’s throat.

“Oh, hell,” said Graves. Shooting Grindelwald with a No-Maj weapon was bad enough; that had been in the heat of battle and with the only effective weapon he had available. Seraphina could spin that, seeing as it was nothing less than the truth.

A slit throat would be much harder to explain. A mercy kill, perhaps? No one in their right mind would believe it.

“Ramirez,” he said. Ramirez ignored him. “Damnit, Marco, _stop!”_

Ramirez rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You know as well as I do that this must be done,” he said.

“No,” said Graves. “It doesn’t. Not by you.”

“Now is _really_ not the time for you to play the martyr,” Ramirez said impatiently.

“I’m not playing the fucking martyr, you jackass,” Graves snapped. “I’m trying to keep you from damaging MACUSA’s reputation with the ICW. Seraphina can explain a bullet wound. A slit throat is another story.”

“The ICW sent us one of Grindelwald’s fanatics,” retorted Ramirez. “I really don’t give a flying fuck about what they want.”

“Neither do I,” said Graves. “Which is why I’m going to _really_ enjoy watching Seraphina kick their asses up and down the Pentagram Chamber.”

“Ugh,” said Credence. _“Politics.”_ He sniffed, as imperiously dismissive as Grandmama Genevieve in a fit of Southern matriarchal temper. It was terrifying. “Mr. Ramirez, would you please Side-Along Percival and I to the hospital before he faints?”

“I’m not going to faint,” Graves grumbled.

“If I let go of you,” Credence asked, “can you stand up on your own?”

“Falling over is not fainting,” Graves protested.

Credence sighed again.

“At any rate,” Graves said, returning to the matter at hand. “There’s no need. He’s already dying.” He staggered forward, leaning heavily on Credence.

“Me,” Grindelwald said, voice wet and pneumatic.

“You what,” Graves said.

“Tell Albus it was me,” said Grindelwald, closing his eyes.

Graves half expected him to try a death curse, but after two excruciatingly long minutes, it became clear that Grindelwald had breathed his last.

Ramirez knelt next to his body and searched for a pulse. He looked rather like he wanted to cut out Grindelwald’s heart and burn it at a crossroads just to be _sure_ the bastard was dead and incapable of hurting anyone ever again, but common sense prevailed.

He caught Graves when Graves stumbled. “You’re an idiot,” he said, with fond resignation. “Hold on a bit longer, would you? Help is on the way.”

 

*

 

Credence spent thirty awful minutes retching into a metal bowl and then a toilet as soon he and Alex Collins Apparated into the Emergency Room of St. Brigid’s Hospital. His Apparation sickness was the worst it had ever been, likely as a result of all the magic he’d thrown around earlier. He slumped against the blissfully cool porcelain, wishing he had enough energy to throw Alex out of the room or – failing that – throw something at Alex, who was not Percival and did not hover properly at all. Percival’s presence was comforting, a familiar balm despite his nausea. Credence didn’t mind when Percival hovered. Alex had good intentions, but his presence just reminded Credence of how miserable he was.

He hoped Dorothy found Alex’s hovering less aggravating than he did.

The uncharitable thought made Credence feel guilty, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up and he still felt like heaving. He hadn’t even been able to keep any of Bessie’s Baby Balm down, which he found alarming beneath the vomit-induced misery.

“Here,” Alex said, handing him yet another glass of water.

Credence eyed it balefully. He understood the need for fluids, but all drinking the first two glasses had done was give him something else to throw up.

“It’s not going to help,” he muttered, but he took a sip anyway. His insides twisted, but he didn’t immediately throw it up again, which was probably a good sign.

Credence took another sip. “I think,” he said carefully, “I might like to try a bit more Bessie’s Baby Balm, and then see if I can stand up.”

“Are you sure?” Alex asked, looking at Credence as though Credence were a bomb that might explode.

“Quite,” Credence said firmly.

Alex wisely chose not to argue further and handed Credence the anti-nausea potion. Then he helped Credence to his feet again, deftly handling the bulk of the heavy-lifting.

_“Scourgify,”_ Credence murmured, refreshing his clothes. He rinsed his mouth out and drained a fresh glass, wondering if Alex had orders to stop him if he went to find Percival.

The door to the little exam room Alex had ushered him into opened, and a slender girl in pale trainee green stepped through the doors. She had dark skin and thick curly black hair pulled into a knot at the base of her neck.

Credence frowned. He recognized her.

“Charlotte,” Alex said.

“Oh,” said Credence, abruptly realizing who she was. Charlotte Summersea. Mr. Summersea’s oldest daughter; the one Percival had set up a scholarship for. She was the Bluebird’s apprentice.

The girl he remembered was vivacious and warm, eager to learn everything about healing that she could. This Charlotte was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She sniffled bravely and offered up a tremulous smile. “Hi, Mr. Collins,” she said politely. “Mr. Graves.”

Credence reached out and took her hands. “It’s Credence,” he said firmly. He wasn’t _that_ much older than Charlotte was, and he knew far less about magic. It seemed ridiculous to stand on titles and ceremony with someone who knew more about magic than he did. 

Also, she was one of Percival’s people, and that meant he had a duty to take care of her. “What happened?” he asked. There was only one reason he could think of for Charlotte to be so upset. “Did something happen to your father?”

Charlotte’s face crumpled.

“He was the one driving Graves and Gaarder and Grindelwald,” Alex said quietly. “He took the brunt of the damage when their car was hit.”

Merciful God, thought Credence. He didn’t know Mr. Summersea very well, but he’d liked him. Mr. Summersea had been kind, and he hadn’t asked about anything Credence didn’t want to talk about when he’d taken Credence’s statement.

“Come here,” Credence said to Charlotte, the way he might have if she were Modesty. She was closer in age to Chastity, but Chastity had stopped coming to him with her hurts and her tears years ago.

Still. Credence had a pretty good idea of how to handle crying teenage girls.

He held onto Charlotte as she wept into her shoulder, crooning wordless soothing nonsense at her until she’d cried herself out. “Can you get her some water, Alex?”

“Sure,” said Alex.

“Sorry,” said Charlotte. “I didn’t mean to just – just go to pieces like that.”

“Have you heard anything about your father?” Credence asked.

Charlotte shook her head. “The Bluebird’s with him. I don’t know enough about healing to help her yet, so she asked me to leave.”

“The Bluebird will take care of him,” Credence said firmly. He did not let himself wonder who was taking care of Percival, if the Bluebird was healing Mr. Summersea. Surely St. Brigid’s had other talented Healers.

The Bluebird was the best, though. He wanted the best for Percival.

“I know,” Charlotte said. She twisted her hands in the fabric of her skirts. “I’m just worried. He’s never been hurt this badly before. Director Graves –” She faltered.

Credence couldn’t tell if she was angry at Percival or worried for him. “It’s okay,” he told her.

She swallowed hard. “Director Graves takes care of his people.”

Worried, then.

“Percival’s going to be fine, too,” Credence said. He was pleased that he sounded more confident than he felt. If he let the fear take root, he would fall to pieces just like Charlotte had.

It was funny, he thought. All those years of shoving his anger down helped him push the fear back just enough so he could function.

“Right,” said Charlotte. “He’s Director Graves. Of course he’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” Credence echoed. He realized, suddenly, that Percival had been the Graves in MACUSA for longer than Charlotte had been alive. She had almost graduated from Ilvermorny, which made her seventeen or eighteen at the oldest. She’d probably grown up with the knowledge that the Graves family would keep their people safe, and that Percival in particular was some sort of stalwart storybook hero.

Alex Collins paused in the doorway, holding a glass of water. His movie star handsome face was stricken, just for a second, and then he caught Credence watching him. He put on a steady, comforting expression that Credence suspected was the reason Alex was so good with traumatized witnesses. It wasn’t a mask; he _meant_ it.

And he knew better than to believe that Percival would be fine just because he was Percival Graves.

“Here,” he said, with a forced calm he did not feel. “Drink some water. It’ll help.”

Alex gave Charlotte the glass, and she sipped at it in embarrassed silence. Chastity had never liked anyone to see her cry either, so Credence changed the subject. “You’re here for …” What had she called it? A special something-or-other that let her apprentice with the Bluebird before her schooling was finished. He couldn’t remember what it was called. “Your apprenticeship?” he finished.

Charlotte nodded. “I was just supposed to shadow the Bluebird on her rounds today, and then the call came in.” She sipped more water. “I wish I knew more,” she said. “I wish I could help.”

Credence knew how she felt.

“Do you know anything about androgenesis spells?” he asked.

Charlotte blinked. “I know the theories,” she said. “Healer Bluebird wanted me to look at yours, actually, since they’re apparently different from the ones most people use.”

Credence made one of Mr. Ramirez’s neutral, placeholder noises in lieu of admitting that was because Mr. Grindelwald had cast them, and he hadn’t really known what he was doing.

“I could take a look,” Charlotte offered, clearly pleased to have something useful to do. “I’m more familiar with the traditional spells, but if you just want me to monitor the health of your baby, I’d be happy to do that.”

“Would you?” Credence asked, trying to keep the anxious fear out of his voice. “I was –” He faltered. “I used rather a lot of magic, earlier,” he explained. “More than I expected to.” More magic than he’d known he had, if he was being honest. It had felt _right,_ though. Using his magic felt like the easiest thing in the world to do, as natural as breathing.

“Oh,” said Charlotte, her expression clouding over into worried concern. She set her glass aside and reached towards his belly. She caught herself before she touched him and asked, “May I?”

“Yes,” Credence said. “Please.”

Charlotte pressed careful fingers to Credence’s stomach, her touch light but sure. Credence felt her magic well up, soft as freshly laundered cotton and just as comforting. The baby, sensing unfamiliar magic, began to kick vigorously where Charlotte’s hand was.

“Hello,” Charlotte told the baby. “You’re a strong one, aren’t you? Just like your parents.” She gave Credence a quick, reassuring smile and resumed concentrating on her work.

Credence held his breath. He’d thought, foolishly, that he would _know_ if anything were wrong with his son, but he hadn’t known that using too much damage could damage the androgenesis spells. He prayed God wouldn’t punish his son for his hubris.

“I’m not as familiar with these spells as I’d like to be,” Charlotte said slowly. “But from what I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with them. Your baby’s healthy and strong.”

“Oh,” said Credence, sagging a little in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“How much magic did you use?” Charlotte asked, curiously.

Alex cleared his throat.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “That can’t _possibly_ be part of an ongoing investigation,” she scoffed.

Alex ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually,” he said, trailing off awkwardly.

“Seriously?” asked Charlotte.

“I sort of … hit … Mr. Grindelwald. With my magic,” Credence explained. At Alex’s accusatory look, he shrugged. _“I’m_ not an Auror. I don’t see why _I_ can’t discuss these things.”

Alex sighed. “Giles Corey save me from the Aurors Spouses Network,” he muttered. “That was a masterful bit of sophistry, Credence.”

“Is it sophistry?” Charlotte wondered. “Mom always calls it _maintaining a direct line of communication when your spouse is being an idiot.”_

“Idiot seems a little hurtful,” Credence pointed out.

“No, it’s totally accurate,” Alex said. Charlotte and Credence both turned to look at him in surprise. “What? I’m an Auror, not an _idiot._ I’m aware that MACUSA’s privileged information policy is …”

“Stupid?” suggested Charlotte.

That got her a disapproving look. “Frustrating,” Alex finished.

“Right,” Charlotte said dryly. “Mom’s been notified, hasn’t she?”

“Er,” said Alex. “Why don’t I go check?”

Charlotte watched him go with, Credence noted, rather more admiration of his backside than was strictly appropriate, but he could hardly blame her for that. Alex seemed like a nice, safe person to have a hopeless crush on.

“You know he only left us alone so that you can tell me everything I’m not supposed to know, right?” Charlotte asked, once the door had closed behind him.

“I figured,” Credence said, amused. “Is a complete lack of subtlety an Auror thing, or has Percival been a terrible influence on everyone?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Hard to say. Dad’s pretty subtle, when he wants to be.” She bit her lip. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Credence shook his head. “I didn’t even know he’d been hurt,” he said apologetically. “The fighting was between Percival and Mr. Grindelwald when I got there.”

Charlotte stared at him. “You fought _Grindelwald?”_

Credence lifted his chin, the cold fury he’d felt at seeing Percival on his knees in front of Mr. Grindelwald bubbling up again. “Mr. Grindelwald would have killed Percival if I hadn’t done anything. Yes, I fought him.”

Charlotte made a feeble gesture. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I doubted you. I was just surprised, is all. Grindelwald’s really strong. Everyone says so. You must be really strong, too, if you fought him.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “Maybe, I guess.”

“What happened?” Charlotte asked.

Credence considered the question for a moment. He got the feeling a lot of people were going to ask him that in the near future, and he wanted to be able to answer them clearly rather than just babble at them uselessly, the way he had whenever he tried to explain Ma’s ministry. None of them had been particularly good at trying to explain – that was what the pamphlets and the meetings were for – but Credence, caught between wanting to please Ma and his own innate awkwardness with people, had probably been the worst at it.

It was strange, Credence thought. He hadn’t felt awkward with anyone since he’d met Percival. New people didn’t even frighten him all that much. He hadn’t been afraid of Mr. Ramirez or Grandmama at all, although he had been afraid that they wouldn’t like him.

“Percival and Mr. Grindelwald were fighting,” he said at last. “Mr. Grindelwald was winning. Percival must have let go of his magic again, because I could feel it everywhere.”

Charlotte’s eyes went big and round. “Uncontrolled magic is really, really dangerous,” she said. “Like, mortally injured last resort dangerous.” She covered her mouth with her hand a second later, as if she could take the words back. “Director Graves is really strong, though,” she blurted. “He’s the Graves in MACUSA. I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”

There must always be a Graves in MACUSA, Credence thought. He’d thought that was just a Graves family tradition, but it clearly meant something to the rest of MACUSA, too.

“He’ll be fine,” Credence said. He thought of Percival’s face, pale with blood loss beneath the dirt and bruises, and tried not to let doubt creep in at the edges. He remembered what it was like when Percival had been unconscious. Once fear crept in, it was nearly impossible to root out.

Percival would be fine. He _had_ to be fine.

“Right,” Charlotte said, putting on a brave face. “What happened next?”

“Er,” said Credence. “It’s a bit of a jumble, really. I hit Mr. Grindelwald with my magic and threw him around a little, and when I had him pinned, Percival shot him with Jacob’s gun.”

Charlotte’s eyes went impossibly bigger. She made a squeaking noise Credence thought meant, _he what?_

“He didn’t have his wand,” Credence explained. “I’m not sure where it went.”

“He shot Grindelwald?” Charlotte blurted.

It was a kinder death than Mr. Grindelwald deserved. Credence shoved the dark thoughts down and made himself focus on Charlotte.

It was funny. He really wasn’t that much older than her, but that handful of years felt like an entire lifetime.

“You don’t need to worry about Mr. Grindelwald,” he said. “He’s no threat to your father, or to anyone else. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Charlotte stopped breathing. Credence watched the words sink in, as Charlotte trembled beneath the weight of her relief.

“Oh,” she breathed. Charlotte squared her shoulders, doing a credible impression of the Bluebird’s brisk, professional demeanor. “Thank you, Mr. Graves,” she said. “My mother and the rest of the Auror Spouses network will be pleased to hear it.” She hesitated. “They’ll be in the family room, if you’d … if you’d like some company, while you wait.”

_They’ll be in the family room._ The way she said it made it sound like there was a protocol for it.

Credence wondered which of his other friends Mr. Grindelwald had managed to hurt before Percival had shot him. Was Tina alright? What about Newt? He was certain that the two of them had been in the thick of things. Tina and Newt always were.

“Please,” he said, suddenly desperate with the desire to make sure the rest of his family was safe.

“Follow me,” she said.

 

*

 

As far as Credence could tell, someone had simply transported the chaos of the emergency room up three floors and removed anyone with the ability to manage it. Someone – Credence thought it was probably Miss Hughes, given what everyone had told him about her vocabulary – was swearing loudly and with terrifying creativity at a man half a head taller than her. Alex Collins tugged at her arm, trying to get her to stop. There were probably a dozen people in between them and Credence – Aurors and their families, the remainder of the ICW delegation and the British Security Team. Not everyone was speaking but it seemed that everyone who was had raised their voice.

This was not, Credence thought, how Grandmama Genevieve had taught him polite witches and wizards conducted themselves. _Even in a crisis, there’s no excuse for poor behavior,_ she would have said.

He cleared his throat. No one heard him. Credence wished for Mr. Ramirez’s ability to quell a room with just a look.

He wondered where Mr. Ramirez had gone – if he was still with Percival, or if he’d returned to Seraphina’s side now that his task of escorting Credence to Georgia was done. He hoped that Mr. Ramirez was alright.

“I think maybe we need an authority figure,” said Charlotte. “Normally, Mom would have everyone under control, but …” She looked around the room, frowning. “I don’t think Mom’s here yet.”

Asking Mr. Summersea’s wife to keep everyone else under control when her husband had been injured in the line of duty seemed cruel, somehow. If didn’t seem right to add to her burdens, not when she didn’t even know if Mr. Summersea would live.

Credence prayed he would. He didn’t want to think about what it would do to Mrs. Summersea or to Charlotte if Mr. Summersea died. He knew what it would do to Percival, and he didn’t want to think about that, either.

Mr. Summersea was going to be fine, he told himself. Just like Percival was going to be fine.

Still. In the interests of not adding to Mrs. Summersea’s burdens, _someone_ had to get control of the room before spells started flying. Credence did not see any reason that person could not be him.

These were Percival’s people, after all. It was his duty as a Graves to look after them in Percival’s absence.

“Is there a spell to make people louder?” he asked Charlotte.

She gave him a dry look. “I’m not sure louder’s going to help.”

“Not them,” Credence said. _“Me.”_

“Oh,” she said. “The vocal amplification spell’s pretty simple. Want me to cast it?”

“Yes, please,” said Credence. He braced himself for the cotton-soft feel of Charlotte’s magic.

_“Sonorus,”_ said Charlotte.

“Excuse me,” Credence said, his voice rising unnaturally loud above the din. Ma would have liked the vocal amplification spell, he thought. The ability to make herself heard across the disinterested background noise of the city, all the better to spread hate with.

She would have half killed _him_ for using it, though. Children were to be seen and not heard, never mind that he was of age and a man.

He got roughly half of the room’s attention. Miss Hughes still looked half a second away from throwing the first spell, or possibly the first punch, so Credence said, _“Excuse me,”_ a little bit louder.

Charlotte winced. She was close enough that the volume had to hurt.

“I would prefer not to have to raise my voice,” Credence continued, channeling Grandmama’s magnificent aplomb, “but I will if I have to.” He paused, and added, “Don’t think I won’t wash your mouth out with soap, either, Miss Hughes. This – _none of this_ – is how polite wizards and witches conduct themselves. A crisis is no excuse for poor behavior.”

If he’d had Percival’s knack for accents, that last bit would have been pure Georgia matriarch.

He had everyone’s attention now. Credence wished he knew what to do with it now that he had it, but at least they’d all stopped shouting. He nodded to Charlotte, who cast _finite incantatem_ on the spell that made him louder.

If he’d been dealing with the orphans, Credence would have separated the ones who’d been fighting. If there were any scraps of food left over, he’d have offered them up, since children were generally easier to deal with if their bellies weren’t empty. He’d have given them what little medical care he knew how to provide if they’d needed it, and gotten them out of Ma’s sight as best he could.

“Who the hell are you?” the wizard Miss Hughes had been arguing with demanded. He had tan skin, like Mr. Ramirez, but his accent was like Newt’s. He must have been part of the British Security team.

Credence wondered where Theseus was. He wondered if Theseus had been hurt like Percival had. He suspected Theseus had; the Theseus of Percival’s war stories would have fought at Percival’s back. He did not think the fact that he hadn’t seen Theseus at all was a good sign.

“My name is Credence Graves,” Credence said politely.

“Of course you are,” said the British wizard, all impatient dismissal.

Alex and Miss Hughes bristled. “Have you got a problem with that, Tanwar?” Alex asked.

“Your director’s child bride is of no concern to me,” the British wizard said. “He has no authority here, and as the ranking officer –”

_“Saponoralis,”_ Credence snapped, because that that was quite enough of _that._

The British wizard gurgled around his sudden mouthful of soap. Miss Hughes looked delighted.

“I am twenty-two, not a child, and I’ll thank you not to slander my fiancé after he saved your lives,” Credence said, all the rage he’d felt at seeing Mr. Grindelwald hurting Percival welling up again. He’d never been this angry before – not at Adrienne Gallagher or Wilkinson. Not even at Ma. His rage felt like a living thing, too big to be contained inside his body, as heavy and final as the wrath of God. If he moved wrong – if he _breathed_ wrong – he would lose control of it.

_No,_ he thought. That was what Ma would have done.

Credence was better than that. He had to be. He shoved his rage back into the dark where it belonged and made himself think of what needed to be done.

He heard the door to the family room open again and hoped that it was someone who could help him keep everyone else calm and not at each other’s throats. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of the assembled crowd to look.

The British wizard spat bubbles and rinsed his mouth out with a stream of water he conjured up at the tip of his wand, heedless of the mess it left on the floor. Once he’d done that, he narrowed his eyes and raised his wand.

_“Stupefy!”_

Someone grabbed Credence from behind, spinning him around. The spell hit Tina squarely in the back, the force of the spell knocking them both into Jacob. Jacob’s arms came up around him automatically, steadying them both.

“I _wish_ you’d stop doing that, Teenie,” Queenie said plaintively. “You’re taking years off my life.”

Miss Hughes punched the British wizard in the face, bloodying his nose. She snatched his wand out of his hands while he cursed, and said, “Give me one good reason not to break this.”

“He cast on an Auror!” the British wizard said, voice wet and muffled as he cradled his face. “Merlin’s _balls,_ I think you broke my nose!”

“He cast on – are you out of your tiny, inbred, sheep-fucking mind?” Miss Hughes demanded. “That spell was harmless!”

“Where as you tried to stun a pregnant wizard,” Alex said, low and furious as he dragged the British wizard’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.

It was entirely possible Credence had asked Charlotte to let go of the spell that made him louder too soon.

“Charlotte?” he asked, indicating his throat again.

“What?” she asked. “Oh. Sure. _Sonorus.”_

He nodded his thanks and then said, “Would everyone _please_ sit down and _be quiet.”_ He glowered at everyone until they shuffled awkwardly into the chairs available in the family room. A couple of the other people conjured up chairs and sat down in them.

Tina and Queenie and Jacob stayed standing, right behind Credence. Charlotte backed towards the door, looking for all the world like she wanted to slip out of it before anyone noticed. Only Alex and Miss Hughes and two of the other wizards next to them – Credence suspected they were British Aurors – were also on their feet.

“Right,” said Credence. “That’s quite enough of that, then.” He glanced back at his friends and whispered, “Could someone..?”

_“Finite incantatem,”_ said Queenie.

“Are you okay?” Credence asked Tina. All three of them were covered in brick dust and dirt and blood, but Tina was the one whose clothes were torn. Credence thought about the slashing hex Mr. Grindelwald had liked to use and had to restrain himself from grabbing Tina to physically check her for harm. She wasn’t moving like she was hurt, and if he’d hit her in the back with a slashing hex, Credence had a pretty good idea of how Tina ought to have been moving. Trying to move when the skin on your back had been laid open – whether with a belt or with magic – was a very distinctive kind of misery.

“I’m fine,” she said, eyes flashing.

“Good.” He looked down at her hands, which were covered in dried blood.

Tina followed his gaze, her expression tightening. “It’s not mine,” she told him.

It was on the tip of Credence’s tongue to ask about Newt. God knew he wanted to – he didn’t think it was a good sign that Newt hadn’t come in with them – but he couldn’t risk someone else losing their temper.

Newt had been in far worse scrapes than this one. Some of his stories were just as hair raising as Percival’s. Moreso, even, since Newt was usually on his own against magical poachers and smugglers and God knew what else, where Percival at least had the _option_ of back-up. Newt was going to be fine.

He had to be.

“Is anyone hurt?” he asked.

A resounding silence echoed around the room.

Credence sighed. _“Aurors,”_ he muttered. It just figured that they were _all_ like Percival and flat-out refused to mention their hurts. “Charlotte, can you please see if anyone is available to check people for injuries?”

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” she said gratefully, and darted out the door.

That was medical care taken care of, at least. 

Treating people the same way he would have treated the orphans seemed to be working okay so far. No one had objected, or tried to make him stop. Credence figured he wasn’t doing _that_ badly.

“I think,” he said carefully, “it would be helpful if someone arranged for food to be delivered.”

“We’ll take care of that, honey,” Queenie said, indicating Jacob with a tilt of her head. She gave him a fierce hug that stopped just shy of hurting and pressed a smacking kiss to the side of his head. “You’re doing just fine,” she whispered.

Jacob clasped his shoulder. Credence reached out and hugged him, grateful for Jacob’s solid strength. He wasn’t Percival, but Credence didn’t need him to be. It was enough that he was Jacob: steady and dependable and _kind._

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You saved all of us, with that gun of yours.”

Jacob relaxed minutely. “Wondered where that wound up,” he said. It looked like he wanted to say more, but Queenie cleared her throat. “Right,” Jacob said, and followed her out the door.

Credence remembered, abruptly, that Jacob was a No-Maj, and his presence in St. Brigid’s probably broke all sorts of laws. Asking him to stay in a roomful of Aurors was probably a terrible idea.

“What are you doing here, Credence?” Tina asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Georgia right now?”

Credence showed her the Heartease charm. “Percival was in danger,” he said. “I had to come back.”

Tina looked appalled. “That was _incredibly reckless.”_

Miss Hughes made a strange noise, almost like one of Newt’s creatures trying to imitate a teakettle. “You’re one to talk, Goldstein,” she said. “We’ll discuss your tendency to run headlong into danger with civilians as back-up later, though. For now, you’re to get treated and babysit this lot,” she indicated the British Aurors and the ICW delegation with a careless wave of her hand.

“Babysit!” Tina and the British wizard with the broken nose chorused, Tina indignant and the British wizard outraged.

Miss Hughes did not reach for her wand, but something about her demeanor suggested that she not only wanted to, she already had it in her hand and everyone else was just too slow to notice the threat. “Did I fucking stutter?” she demanded.

“Goldstein’s the ranking MACUSA Auror,” Alex cut in, before anyone was forced to answer that question. 

“Magic help us,” muttered Miss Hughes.

“Hey!” said Tina. She shut her mouth when she saw the fierce look on Miss Hughes’ face. Tina wasn’t cowed by authority, but she did know when to keep her mouth shut. Tina had a much better sense of self preservation than Percival did.

“Graves, McRory and Summersea are down,” Miss Hughes said grimly. “So is the head of the British Security Team. You don’t have the seniority to handle the clean-up, and _you,”_ she told the British wizard with the broken nose, “don’t have the seniority or the jurisdiction. Your orders are to see to the needs of the ICW delegation, which means you’re on babysitting duty until I say otherwise. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tina said immediately.

“Good girl,” said Miss Hughes. “Don’t let me down, rookie.”

“No, ma’am,” Tina said staunchly.

Miss Hughes gave the British wizard a poisonous look. “If you even _think_ of giving the rookie or the Director’s adorable fiancé trouble, you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Spare me your bravado,” the British wizard retorted. “Your threats are as vulgar as your demeanor, you foul mouthed harpy.”

“Trust me,” said Miss Hughes. “That wasn’t a threat. You’ll know when I decide to threaten you.”

“That’s enough,” Alex began, at the same time one of other wizards said, “Tanwar, for fuck’s sake, would you _shut your gob.”_ His accent was slightly different from the British wizard’s; there was more of a lilt to it, but with different stresses on the vowels. _“I’ve_ a mind to wallop you. What kind of rat bastard casts on a pregnant wizard?”

“The English,” opined someone else, with a different accent from either wizard.

“Thank you, Wood,” Alex said. He touched Miss Hughes’ elbow. “Win?”

“Right,” said Miss Hughes, and Apparated them both away.

Credence looked around the room again. The remaining witches and wizards still looked tense, if somewhat less on the cusp of violence.

He caught Tina doing the same thing. She did not look like she had any more of an idea of how to handle things than he did, but being Tina, she’d probably die trying.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t need a healer?” he asked.

Tina brushed his concern off. “I’m fine,” she said firmly, sounding so much like Percival that it made the breath catch in Credence’s throat.

Percival would be fine, he reminded himself. Percival _had_ to be fine, the stubborn idiot.

What would Percival do, if he were here?

If Percival were here, no one would dare to panic. They wouldn’t need to. The Graves name meant safety. _Percival_ meant safety, to Credence and Charlotte and probably everyone else. If Percival were here, everyone would already know they were safe and that everything was going to be fine.

Saying so couldn’t hurt.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he told the assembled wizards.

That got him a bunch of disbelieving looks.

The British wizard with the broken nose spat on the floor. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you, _Mr. Graves,”_ he said. “Grindelwald’s probably escaping as we speak.”

Credence did not like the way he said _Mr. Graves,_ as if it were an insult. His irritation made him more abrupt than he meant to be. “No,” he said, taking care to keep his rage down in the dark where it belonged.

“No?” asked one of the witches. Credence thought she might be someone’s wife; she didn’t hold herself with the deliberate watchfulness every Auror he’d ever met did.

Tina grabbed his elbow before he could answer. Credence turned to face her and read the question in her eyes.

_Is he dead?_

Credence nodded.

Tina pursed her lips. Then she said, “MACUSA has the Grindelwald situation under control, Mrs. McDowell.”

“What does that even mean?” Mrs. McDowell demanded. “My husband’s not even on Director Graves’ team – he was just supposed to drive part of the delegation to the docks!”

“Do you trust Percival?” Credence asked, walking towards Mrs. McDowell.

Mrs. McDowell blinked. “Director Graves?” she asked. “I – well, yes, of course. He’s –” She made a vague hand gesture.

Credence knew exactly what she meant. He was _Percival:_ MACUSA’s shield and Seraphina’s sworn knight. “He’s the Graves in MACUSA,” he supplied.

“Yes,” she said.

Credence took her hands in his. “Then trust him a little longer, please,” he begged. “I know it’s hard, but I _promise_ that your faith isn’t misplaced. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll get healers in here to see everyone who got hurt in the fighting, and then we’ll find out how everyone who was injured is doing – including your husband.”

“Alright,” said Mrs. McDowell. She sighed and sat down, gesturing for Credence to take the chair next to his. “Get off your feet, Mr. Graves. Magic knows standing is a misery when you’re that far along.”

“Thank you,” Credence said. It _did_ feel nice to be off his feet, although he felt a little weird. Should he be talking to the rest of the witches and wizards?

“I’m going to see if there’s another room for the ICW delegation and the British Security team,” Tina announced. “They all need to be statemented, anyway. Will you be alright?”

Credence looked around. Everyone in the room was just like him – part of the Auror Spouses network. These weren’t just Percival’s people.

They were his.

“We’ll be fine,” he told her, and meant it.

 

*

 

It took Graves a moment to realize where he was when he woke up. His first thought was that he was back in Grindelwald’s basement prison, because Credence was pressed tight against his side in a bed much too small to hold two grown men, particularly not when one of them was pregnant. Credence was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Graves raised a hand to stroke his hair and regretted it a second later, when awareness of how much he fucking hurt filtered through his sleep-dulled brain. Grindelwald must have decided that it was extended torture time again.

Graves shoved the pain down and let awareness of everything else filter in. The mattress he was lying on was much softer than the hard camp cot he and Credence had shared, and the sheets smelled like they were freshly laundered rather than repeatedly _scourgified._

Oh, he thought. St. Brigid’s.

The door to his hospital room before that had fully sunk in. Graves’ brain stuttered between _threat_ and _safety_ and landed predictably on _threat._ He levered himself into a half crouch, trying to provide as much cover for Credence as he could and instinctively cast a silent _protego_ in case Grindelwald was in one of his moods again.

His shield spell flickered and vanished.

If he’d been younger and greener, Graves would have frozen in shock. He hadn’t fumbled a shield spell since before he’d gotten his first wand at Ilvermorny. He’d never had one fail in all the time he’d been an Auror. For one to fail him now, when needed it most –

Instinct and training took over. Graves cast the spell again and groped for something – _anything_ – he could use as a makeshift weapon.

“Percival,” Seraphina snapped. _“Stand down.”_

Graves slumped back against his hospital bed and felt stupid. He’d reacted on panicked instinct, rather than as a seasoned Auror.

_“Fuck,”_ he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. His panicked flailing had miraculously not woken Credence, and he wanted to let Credence rest for as long as possible.

Seraphina inclined her head in agreement, regal as a queen despite her obvious exhaustion.

Graves felt himself relax minutely at the sight of her. There was a reason Seraphina was usually the one at his bedside after he’d been injured. He trusted Seraphina to keep him safe if she had to. Seraphina looked after her people, and Graves had been hers since he was ten years old.

Graves would have gone to his knees in supplication, if he could have. He was not entirely certain he would have been able to get up again on his own, though, so it was probably just as well that he couldn’t.

“Grindelwald?” he asked, or tried to. His mouth had gone dry while he was unconscious, so the word came out a guttural jumble.

Seraphina poured him a cup of water from the pitcher by his bed and passed it to him.

Graves took it gratefully and drained it. “Thanks,” he rasped. “Grindelwald?”

“Is very dead,” Seraphina told him calmly. Her voice was a sharp contrast to the dark fire of her eyes. She was furious. “You saw to that. I forgot about your disturbing fondness for No-Maj weapons.”

Graves gave her a repressive look. Ramirez’s fondness for No-Maj weapons was far more disturbing than his own.

“Marco’s bow isn’t a No-Maj weapon,” Seraphina reminded him.

“It’s as good as,” Graves retorted, falling back on the familiar argument. Ramirez used arrows fletched with thunderbird feathers, and his bow had a core of pukwudgie quill, much the same way a wand would. Ramirez could probably use it as a wand in a pinch, but as far as Graves knew, Ramirez only used his bow’s inherent magic to make his arrows fly straight and true across impossible distances. Graves wasn’t entirely convinced that Ramirez wouldn’t have been able to do that with an ordinary bow; the man was nothing if not determined.

“I’d dare you to say that to his face, but I think you might be stupid enough to do it,” Seraphina said tartly. “What the fuck were you _thinking?”_ she demanded.

“He had to be stopped,” Graves said. “He would have gone after Credence if I hadn’t.”

Grindelwald would have done worse than that and they both knew it. He would have killed everyone who stood in his path: Theseus, Newt, both of the Goldstein sisters and Jacob, every last one of Graves’ Aurors, to say nothing of the ICW delegation. He would have come for Seraphina and MACUSA eventually.

He would have stolen Graves’ son and raised him as his own.

He would have hurt Credence, maybe killed him, because Credence wouldn’t go meekly like a lamb to the slaughter. Not anymore.

Graves would die before he let anyone hurt Credence ever again.

Seraphina’s expression softened when she looked at Credence. “I think Credence might have had a thing or two to say about that.”

“Yes,” Graves said, thinking of Credence facing Grindelwald down. Credence had looked like one of his mother’s stories come to life: like magic made flesh, powerful and unstoppable as a force of nature. It sent a dark possessive thrill down his spine. Credence was his, and he was Credence’s.

Seraphina made an exasperated noise. “Down, boy.”

Gaarder’s voice echoed from memory. _They call you Picquery’s Hounds._

Fuck, what a waste.

Graves frowned. “The ICW?” The ICW had to be shitting bricks by now. The head of the delegation had been one of Grindelwald’s fanatics, an otherwise unblemished life of service disguising the rot Grindelwald spread everywhere he went. How had the ICW missed that? How had he missed that?

“Leave the ICW to me,” Seraphina said.

“Seraphina –”

“No,” she said, implacable. “You dealt with Grindelwald, I can deal with the ICW.”

Arguing with her would only piss her off. It was fury that drove her now, coiled up like a serpent preparing to strike. Graves had no desire to find himself on the other end of her fangs.

Seraphina cupped his cheek in one hand, then bent down to kiss his forehead. “If you do anything that foolish ever again, I’ll murder you myself,” she promised. She pulled her hand back from his face and held it out to him, palm up, offering to share her magic with his.

Graves couldn’t remember the last time someone had shared their magic with him. The war, probably. He opened his mouth to protest and remembered the failed shield. He didn’t have enough of his own magic left to protect Credence right now.

The fact that Credence seemed fully capable of protecting himself didn’t ease his fears at all. Fear was like that, though. It wasn’t rational, and a smart Auror knew better than to listen to it.

Graves placed his hand in hers and let Seraphina’s magic flow into him. She was the first person he’d ever shared magic with, all of thirteen years old and determined to prove that they could. Sharing magic wasn’t taught until seventh year at Ilvermorny, and then only in theory. Most witches and wizards went their whole lives without using up enough of their magic to warrant sharing someone else’s. It was rare, even for Aurors.

Seraphina’s magic was as familiar as his own. For a second, Graves felt thirteen again. He had the sense-memory of serpent scales and the shock of landing in cold, brackish water when Seraphina vanished the swamp-glass roads out from underneath his feet. He could almost smell honeysuckle and Spanish moss, the taste of sweet tea lingering thickly on the back of his tongue. All of that was just memory, though, well-buried beneath the way Seraphina’s magic felt now: like steel and diamonds, all of Seraphina’s sharp edges honed razor-sharp with the strength of her determination. Only a fool would pit himself against Seraphina Picquery’s will and think that he could win.

“Thank you,” Graves said, pulling his hand away from hers. He balled it into a fist and pressed it to his heart.

“Be well,” she told him. “I’ll send the Bluebird in, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Thank you,” he said again. “Seraphina?”

She turned back at the door, raising one elegant eyebrow at him.

“Good hunting,” Graves told her.

 

*

 

Seraphina must have warned the Bluebird that Credence was still asleep, because she stalked rather than stomped into his room and glared at him silently rather than yelling.

Graves honestly would have preferred the yelling. The Bluebird did not do icy silence. She couldn’t quite manage icy silence now, although to her credit, she seemed to be trying. Her breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, like an enraged bull about to smash up a china shop.

Graves licked his lips and wished for more water. “Credence?” he asked quietly. “The child?” Credence had flung _so much_ magic around earlier. He’d seemed fine in the immediate aftermath, but what if he hadn’t been? What if something had happened to him while Graves was unconscious? What if someone like Wilkinson had tried to hurt him while Graves couldn’t stop them?

The Bluebird’s expression softened minutely. “Fine,” she said. “They’re both fine.”

Graves closed his eyes and let the relief overwhelm his sense of duty, just for a second. Credence was fine. Their son was fine. No one had hurt them. Magic willing, no one ever would.

When he opened his eyes again, it was as the Director of Magical Security. “My people?” he asked. “Summersea? McRory? Scamander? Both Scamanders,” he clarified. “Goldstein?” Grindelwald had hit her with a slashing hex. Had the shield charm held?

The Bluebird pursed her lips. 

Graves held his breath, waiting for the ax to fall.

“Senior Auror Summersea is in the room next to yours. He’s expected to make a full recovery. Director Scamander is across the hall. He’ll need another round of Skelegro for his ribcage and pelvis, and it will be at least a week before his new organs will function normally without monitoring.”

Graves bit his tongue to keep from shouting and tasted blood. “Director Scamander’s _new organs?”_ he hissed.

Aelinor gave him an impatient look. “He had a building dropped on him. He broke six ribs and suffered significant internal damage. He needed new lungs and a new liver.” She sighed. “He was quite pleased about the liver. I believe his exact words were, ‘lovely, I can drink like an eighteen year old again.’”

“Has Sally threatened to neuter him yet?”

“Oh, yes. Repeatedly. She likes his younger brother, though. And Auror Goldstein.”

Which just left one person unaccounted for.

“McRory?” he prompted.

She looked away. “The Legilimens-Healers are doing what they can.”

Fuck.

Graves barely knew McRory, but the man was still an Auror – still one of his. McRory had stood by him during the Special Tribunal, and done what he could to stop Grindelwald. He deserved better than a mind shattered by the Imperius and magic knew what else.

“Aelinor –”

“It’s early yet,” she interrupted. “These things take time.”

Graves nodded. There was a reason mind magic was considered one of the most dangerous disciplines. Even a little tampering could do a lot of harm. The British considered Imperius an Unforgivable, and most of wizarding Europe considered Legilimency a necessary evil at best and a stigma at worst. You could use someone who could read your thoughts, but you didn’t trust them.

There was a reason Goldstein the Younger worked so hard to seem frivolous and silly. Even in America, with its Legilimens-interrogators, a certain wariness of mind magic was hard to shake.

“Mind if we focus on you for a bit?” the Bluebird asked.

Graves raised both eyebrows at her, surprised. His injuries hadn’t seemed bad enough to warrant mentioning. He hurt, yes, but in the way that meant he’d live. “If you like.”

The Bluebird took a loud, angry breath and let it out slowly. “The Morrigan save me from your self-sacrificing streak.”

Graves nobly pretended he hadn’t heard that. He was getting tired of arguing about people over his non-existent martyr streak.

“When all of this is over,” the Bluebird said, “you and I are going to sit down and we will discuss _exactly_ what letting go of your magic does to your body. I am going to tell you what it does to your nerves, your body’s autonomic functions, and your internal organs. I am going to describe, _in detail,_ which of your organs were in danger of shutting down entirely. And then you are going to promise me that you will never do anything like that ever again.”

Graves looked at Credence. “You know I can’t promise that, Aelinor.”

She smiled at him. It was a cold, fey smile – a reminder that Healers could take lives as well as save them, with only their oaths to stop them. The Bluebird was the most powerful Healer in generations. She could have been a Dark Lady to surpass Grindelwald, if she hadn’t been called to MACUSA’s service instead.

“You will,” she said. “But that’s for later. For now, get some rest. Take care of your husband. He’s had a busy couple of days, wrangling the Auror Spouses Network and your Aurors.”

“Always,” Graves promised. He’d wondered why Credence was still asleep. Credence slept nearly as lightly as he did, thanks to years of Mary Lou Barebone’s dubious care. He must have been exhausted. Graves would not have taken on the Auror Spouses Network for love or money; the Auror Spouses Network was terrifying.

Well, maybe for love, but certainly not for money.

The Bluebird ruffled his hair and left, chuckling quietly at his indignant hiss.

Graves tried to wriggle into a more comfortable sleeping position. Credence and their son were healthy and safe. His people were healing and safe. MACUSA was safe.

Grindelwald was dead.

Graves closed his eyes and let himself rest.

 

*

 

Someone shook Credence’s shoulder gently to wake him.

Credence burrowed his face more firmly into his pillow and made a grumbling noise of protest. He wasn’t quite ready to wake up yet, thank you very much. Waking up meant another day of sitting at Percival’s bedside, pretending he wasn’t going out of his mind with worry.

Percival was going to be fine. Everyone said so. The Bluebird and Nurse Sally had told him so over and over again, so patiently Credence thought he must have driven them half mad with the repetition of it. He _knew_ Percival was going to be fine.

It was just that the waiting was still hard. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, that time in their cell. Credence wasn’t worried that he’d lose Percival, or their son, or that Mr. Grindelwald might come down the stairs again and there would be no one to make him stop hurting Percival just because he could. Mr. Grindelwald was dead, and he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

Credence was fairly certain that his friends had set up some kind of rota, so that he would never be alone for too long. Dorothy and Newt and Jacob took the morning and noontime shifts, before Newt went off to sit with Theseus. Sometimes Credence went with him, because Percival would want to know that Theseus was being properly looked after, but he didn’t want to leave Percival alone for too long.

Tina and Queenie and Alex took the evening shifts after work. They took turns bringing him dinner and MACUSA gossip. Queenie usually had better gossip than Tina or Alex did, which Tina claimed was because Queenie had an unfair advantage and Queenie maintained was because she _actually talked to people, Teenie, you might try it._

Seraphina was much too busy to stay for long, but she’d stop by late at night or very early in the mornings outside of visiting hours. She got away with it because she was the president, and because the Bluebird knew better than to keep her and Percival apart.

“Two peas in a pod,” was what she’d said. “Violent, dysfunctional, codependent peas.”

Seraphina had made a hand gesture Credence had learned from Miss Hughes at her and continued berating Percival for being a reckless moron. She seemed to find it soothing, even if Percival couldn’t hear her.

Credence wasn’t ready to face any of his friends just yet, no matter how well-meaning their presence was. He needed a little bit more time with just his family – just Percival and their son and the quiet of Percival’s hospital room, the steady rise and fall of Percival’s chest beneath Credence’s cheek, the slow beating of his heart.

Unfortunately, most of his friends were all well-meaning busybodies. Tina was the worst of the bunch. She’d decided Credence needed some kind of older sister figure, and was making up for all the years Credence hadn’t one with a whole lot of well-intentioned fussing that made Queenie roll her eyes.

“G’way, Tina,” he mumbled.

“Tina,” Percival said, sounding amused. “Do I want to know why you’re dreaming of Goldstein?”

Credence shot straight up, and only Percival’s reflexes kept him from smacking his head into Percival’s chin.

“Percival!” He dragged Percival into a kiss, all graceless joy and terrible morning breath. He wanted to kiss Percival forever.

“Hi,” said Percival. “Sorry to wake you,” he added. “But, ah, I could use a bit of help getting to the water closet.”

“You could –” Credence gestured towards the bedpan.

“Absolutely not,” Percival said. “I just need an arm to lean on.”

Credence scrambled out of bed. He couldn’t scramble very quickly, but he did his best.

Getting Percival out of bed and to the water closet turned out to be a production. Percival slumped into the chair next to the bed rather than try to climb back into it, clearly exhausted from the effort.

“I don’t remember it being this bad, last time,” he said.

“You could barely walk, last time,” Credence pointed out. Their cell hadn’t been very big, though, and Percival had been able to use the walls for support. “Also, the Bluebird said you used too much magic, and that it was physically taxing.”

“Still,” said Percival, who clearly thought human limitations were something that happened to other people. “You’re back from Georgia.”

“I had to come back. You were hurt.” Credence showed him the Heartease charm.

“You confronted _Grindelwald,”_ Percival continued. He looked upset by that, even though Mr. Grindelwald was dead.

“So did you,” Credence said. “And if you try to tell me that I shouldn’t have because I’m pregnant, I will be very cross with you. I’m pregnant, not infirm, which is better than I can say for you.”

“Ouch,” said Percival, mock-wounded. “I’m hardly infirm,” he protested, which was rich coming from someone who needed help getting to the bathroom.

Credence just gave him a disapproving look.

“Possibly sending you to Georgia was a mistake,” Percival mused. “You’re far too good at channeling Genevieve. It’s a little terrifying.”

“Good,” said Credence. “Maybe then you’ll listen.”

“I always listen to you,” Percival protested.

He did. It was one of the things Credence loved about him. Credence bent down to kiss him again in lieu of admitting that Percival did listen – albeit not always in the ways Credence would like.

“Fuck,” Percival grumbled. “You have no idea how much I want to touch you right now.”

“Nurse Sally says we’re not to have relations in the hospital,” Credence informed him. That had been an _excruciatingly mortifying_ conversation. If Credence never had one like it ever again, it would still be too soon. His face went red at the memory.

Percival gave his blush the considering look that meant what he really wanted was to see how far down Credence’s chest it went. Percival was incorrigible.

“We’re hardly the first people to have relations in this hospital,” was all he said instead. “Not that I could get it up right now.”

Credence couldn’t help it. His gaze dropped to Percival’s groin, wondering if the Bluebird had neglected to mention some injury. With the exception of the time just after Mr. Grindelwald had thrown Percival’s unconscious body back into their cell like garbage, Percival was _always_ up for sex.

Percival followed his gaze, mouth quirking in a wry smile. “I will take you to bed and make you scream if that’s what you want, lovely,” he purred. “But I suspect I need a few more blood replenishing potions before we get to anything more athletic.”

Credence shivered. He hadn’t let himself think about sex in Georgia. It seemed disrespectful, somehow, to think about sex in Seraphina’s childhood home with Grandmama and Mr. Ramirez just down the hall. Not thinking about sex was easy; he’d had plenty of practice at it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss it – the way Percival could make his body sing beneath his own, what it felt like to be drunk on pleasure and Percival’s touch, tipping over the edge into ecstasy and shivering with the aftershocks until Percival made him rise again.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself they had the rest of their lives to enjoy their marriage bed. Also, he did not want to have a repeat of his earlier conversation with Nurse Sally. He might actually die of embarrassment if he had to have it a second time.

“Not in the hospital,” he said firmly.

“The bed is better at home,” Percival said, not sounding especially disappointed. “Then I can hold you as long as I like, and no one will bother us.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He thought about being safe and sheltered in Percival’s arms. Sometimes he thought that was the only place in the world he was truly safe. “We could get back into bed, and you could do that.”

Percival gave the bed a baleful look, clearly not looking forward to the effort of trying to get back into it. “Maybe after breakfast,” he said diplomatically. He reached out and grasped Credence’s hand, tracing his fingers over the lifeline.

Credence shivered.

“Tell me about Georgia?” Percival asked.

“I don’t want to bore you,” Credence said. “You’ve already been.” Surely the things he found so wondrous would seem commonplace to someone who’d been raised as a wizard.

“Credence,” Percival said seriously, “you could read me the minutes from the last Senate meeting and I wouldn’t be bored.”

“Are Senate meetings very boring?” Credence asked, amused. He could tell from Percival’s tone that they were. He wondered how Percival coped with the boredom. Even in their cell, he was always moving – doing push-ups or sit-ups or shadow boxing. Sitting still in meetings probably drove him crazy.

“They are _extremely boring,”_ said Percival. “I would much rather hear about Georgia.”

“Well,” said Credence. “You were right about Grandmama – she knows _everything_ about proper wizarding etiquette.”

“She really, really does,” agreed Percival. “I hope that she told you that there was nothing wrong with your manners. You really don’t have anything to worry about.”

Credence rolled his eyes. _“You_ don’t think so,” he said tartly. “The rest of wizarding New York’s society might feel otherwise. I’m not going to let anyone think that you married beneath you,” he added fiercely.

Percival straightened up, lightning in his eyes. “Anyone who says that isn’t worth the air it would take to say it,” he said, low and utterly serious. “They won’t be worth the effort it would take to rend them limb from limb. Not that that would stop me,” he added, aiming for casual and mostly landing on murderous. “Has anyone said anything like that to you?”

He sounded like Mr. Ramirez. And like Grandmama, and Tina, and Newt and Jacob and all the rest of their family.

“No,” Credence said. “And I intend to make sure that they never do.”

“You’re mine,” Percival said. “And I’m yours. I don’t give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks. You’re strong enough to stop _Grindelwald._ If anyone’s marrying beneath himself, it’s you.”

Credence laughed at the utter ridiculousness of _that_ notion.

“We’re not married yet,” he pointed out, reaching out to grasp Percival’s left hand. They’d taken his ring off after he’d first been admitted to St. Brigid’s, wary of swelling. It still sat on the nightstand next to the bed, alongside the pitcher of water and Percival’s wand.

Percival looked down at both of their hands, caressing Credence’s knuckles with his thumb. “Not yet.”

“I thought,” Credence said. “Now that you’ve stopped Mr. Grindelwald, maybe … Maybe a wedding?” He’d used the library at Picquery House to start researching proper wizarding weddings. He hadn’t dared ask Grandmama about it though, lest the portraits overhear and start offering advice. The portraits were _very enthusiastic_ about their advice, when they could stop arguing with one another long enough to give it, but that did not mean their advice was any good.

“A wedding?” Percival asked. “Pretty clothes and pageantry and happily ever after?”

“How about just the happily ever after?” Credence countered.

Percival raised Credence’s hands to his lips and kissed them. “Happily ever after sounds like a good plan to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> [I am also on tumblr.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/) You are more than welcome to come scream about fandom with me there. Driveby shouty comments, headcanons and prompts are also welcome!


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